Musgrave Blaze
by sevenpercent
Summary: Mixing ACD canon, Sherlock and John are drawn to the rolling hills of Gloucestershire to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a horse, the death of its trainer, and the theft of a three-day eventing trophy from Musgrave Hall. Multi-chapter case fic that brings back some old memories for both men.
1. Chapter 1

**Musgrave Blaze **

* * *

**Chapter One**

Sherlock tried to ignore the vibration of his phone in his jacket pocket. He was in the middle of a tricky, if somewhat messy job, and needed to concentrate. The overwhelming stench of decomposition in the morgue was hard enough to deal with for someone whose sense of smell was hypersensitive. _Occupational hazard; I can tolerate it for the sake of science_. He kept telling himself that; it was a little mantra to wave in front of all those noxious fumes. But, add an unanswered phone to that mixture and his irritation became palpable. He took a shallow breath and then wielded the scalpel to take a wafer-thin slice of lung tissue, which he transferred onto the waiting slide. Then he used the pipette to inject the stain, placing the cover slip on it to get a good seal. He needed ten more slides to complete the set of twenty. Behind him, he could hear Molly Hooper continuing with the autopsy.

He had to finish his sampling while the body was still being worked on, so the lungs could be re-united with the cadaver at the end of the procedure. Otherwise, families fussed at the delay, funeral directors complained, and he had promised not to slow Molly's work rate because of his investigations. His phone buzzed again. He ignored it.

"How much time do I have left?"

"About thirty minutes- more, if you need it. I can take a break and get us a cup of coffee, if you'd like?"

"No, that will be fine."

She sighed as she turned back to the bloated cadaver. White, female, moderately obese, but now blown up grotesquely by the lengthy period she had spent in the water. A body found in the Thames just upstream of Greenwich- she was the latest in a long line of river victims that had brought Sherlock to the mortuary on a regular basis for the past five months. In each case, he wanted to be there when the organs were removed, so he could take tissue samples from the lungs. She'd asked why, and been treated to a lecture.

"Do you realise that most drownings in the London area occur in people's own homes? The bathtub is a lethal weapon, but at least in those cases, the cause of death and location are known. Rivers are more challenging- time, tides, currents, river boat traffic and temperature all play a part in deciding where the bodies are eventually found and in what condition. Of course, it's not just drownings. Every week somewhere along the 215 mile length of the Thames, a body washes up after having been dumped there. In those cases, river water also penetrates the lung tissue unless their mouths and noses are taped shut."

She'd asked how the tissue samples would help.

"I am trying to develop a protocol for identifying the entry points for bodies that are dumped and those who drown in the Thames. Biochemical analysis of the lung tissue is crucial, as the debris content varies enormously from one stretch to another. I've already constructed the database, using Thames Water sampling information; now I need to identify the different contaminants in cadaver tissue before the biochemical elements start to decay from exposure to the air when the lungs are removed during the autopsy."

Molly could hear the phone vibrating again in Sherlock's pocket. It made a sort of faint 'mooing' noise.

"Do you want me to get that?" she asked a little timidly.

Sherlock looked up in annoyance. "If I answer it, I will have to change my gloves to avoid contaminating the tissue."

She decided to be helpful. "Stand up then and let me get to it; I don't mind taking a break anyway. She's a little smelly, and I could do with the fresh air."

He nodded brusquely and stood up. She tried not to blush as she reached into his jacket's inside left pocket. Very gingerly she pulled the phone out whilst trying to avoid touching him. She knew he didn't like to be touched.

"It's John. He's sent you three texts."

"Read them out." He returned to the lung and prepared the next slide.

"At 11.18, the first one says- '_We have a new client. ETA Baker Street 20 mins'_. The next one was at 11.40; he says, ' _New client- VERY_', Sherlock, he's capitalised the very, '_interesting. Get back soon_."

"And the last one?"

She giggled. "He sounds annoyed. '12.01, _I'm getting tired of busking; you're the maestro- get your butt back here ASAP_.'

Sherlock frowned. In the competition between a new case or an experiment, he knew which one would win. Still, he was reluctant to abandon the work done this morning. "If I only do ten rather than the twenty, it will reduce the statistical validity."

Molly said brightly, "Look, show me what to do, and I'll complete the set for you. No one will know. She's so smelly that no one will dare come down here for a while. So, you can go. Don't keep John waiting with this mystery client."

He stripped off his gloves, explained exactly what had to be done, then snatched the phone from her hands, and was struggling into his coat as he was half-way out the door. "Molly, even your pathology skills are good enough to do this." She smiled._ I think that was a compliment, Sherlock, even though you probably didn't mean it to be one._


	2. Chapter 2

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Two:**

* * *

Back at Baker Street, John was trying to keep the client happy. "He's on his way, Colonel Ross. He's been investigating the death of a woman, found in the Thames last night; says he will be here in the next half hour. Can I get you another cup of coffee?" When the client nodded his assent, John retreated to the kitchen, grateful for the opportunity to eat up some of the time by preparing another coffee for them both.

The Colonel was a small alert person, very neat and dapper. His hair was starting to thin on the crown, and he was in his late fifties, but well groomed and dressed in the green tweeds of a countryman. When John returned with the steaming cups, the man leaned forward and keenly scrutinised the doctor.

"Are you a rider, then, Captain Watson?"

John smiled. "Please, I'm not in the army anymore and I don't use the title. Just Doctor- it's good enough for me these days."

"That doesn't answer the question." It was said in a friendly tone.

"Yes, I do know how to ride. Not, of course, in the same league as your world, I hasten to add, but I learned how to ride while on tour with the army."

"Ah, Afghanistan! Were they Waziri or Buskashi horses?"

"The latter. I was very fortunate on my first tour of duty to become acquainted with one of the great chapandaz riders in the local village. I operated on his son's arm, when he'd been injured in one of the buskashi matches. The father insisted on teaching me to ride, in gratitude and thereafter I was hooked. I have to say, at times it kept me sane. Riding horses in the middle of a battle zone is a rather odd way to enjoy yourself when off duty, but I don't regret a single minute of it."

"Have you kept up with the riding in London, then?"

John tried to not laugh. "I find the cost-of-living in London is rather all consuming. Just a hack in Hyde Park for an hour costs so much, and I don't have the kit for it, either. Riding in Central London seems confined to millionaires and aristocrats these days, all looking like they are extras on some film set."

The colonel beamed. "Well, we can remedy that for sure. While you are out in Gloucestershire with us, we will get you back on a horse. All work and no play is definitely not on."

John took a moment to remember how much it had meant to him; he hadn't really thought of resuming it after his injury, while his shoulder was still so weak. Now, however, he thought he could manage it again. It would definitely be worth finding out.

This reverie was broken by the sound of the front door banging shut and the quick strides of a consulting detective coming up the seventeen steps at speed.

Sherlock came into the room and in one fluid movement, hung his coat and scarf onto the hook and then threw himself into the chrome and leather chair, before the colonel could even make an attempt to stand to introduce himself.

John started to do so, "This is Colonel Ross from…"

Sherlock interrupted. "…the wilds of Gloucestershire. Your train ticket from Cheltenham Spa to Paddington is in your top pocket. What brings a horse trainer to Baker Street, Colonel?"

The small man looked startled. "Have you heard of me, then Mr Holmes? If so, I am flattered. I did not think you had kept up your interest in eventing."

John's nose had caught a disgusting smell. He sniffed and then looked over at his flatmate. "Um, Sherlock, what have you been doing this morning?"

The detective's brow furrowed for a moment, and then he shed his suit jacket and shot one of his fake smiles at the client. "Sorry. Dead drowned bodies have a scent that clings to cloth. After an hour in its presence, my nose is inured to the smell. I will have to get the suit cleaned." He sniffed. "And have a shower- later, once I know more about the case."

But before the man could even draw breath to start, Sherlock was off again. "I can't say that I recognise your name, but that's not relevant. The mud on the instep of your left boot has traces of stabled horse manure. The fact that the ticket is for a first class return, and the cut of your jacket, which is tailor-made from Alexander James, both suggest that your employer is sufficiently wealthy to warrant my services, so one of the more prosperous stables in the county, of which there are several. Your own admission- eventing- narrows the field; we can delete any thoroughbred racing establishments. You aren't from Badminton or Gatcombe- if you had been, then my brother would be sticking his aristocratic nose into this. Not one of the new training establishments like Fiddlers Green or Rusbridge. So, by process of elimination, you are from either Musgrave Hall or Whittington Court."

The names rolled off his tongue without thinking, but the images they recalled came flooding in like a tide. For a moment, he closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to block them out, get control back. He slammed that particular door in his mind palace shut, and then opened his eyes again.

The Colonel was laughing out loud. "She said you were clever, but my word, I didn't realise just how clever!"

Sherlock nodded, "The Countess of Southrop then, at Musgrave Hall."

"Yes- I run her training stables. She sends her greetings, and requests the pleasure of your company."

This provoked a frown from the consulting detective, who shot a withering look at John. "I thought there was a _case_. If this is a social call, then I will be on my way back to the mortuary, where I was in the middle of a rather important piece of work." He started to stand up.

John intervened before the client could take too much offence. "Just sit down, Sherlock. There is a case; give the man a chance."

Slightly nonplussed by the detective's rude manner, the Colonel sat back in the chair. "Well, yes, there is a case, and a damned mystery it is. Has the local police in a bother because they can't find a clue. Day before yesterday our top trainer was killed, murdered, according to the police. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, whilst out alone on a morning gallop. He was on one of the Countess's best horses, Highwood Blaze, who's now gone missing. We've searched the whole of the estate all day yesterday and can't find him, which is a damned nuisance as he is the favourite for the Wessex Cup event that's on in three weeks' time."

John looked surprised. "Why haven't we seen anything in the papers about this, Colonel? Something that sensational would surely have made it into the news?"

The dapper man looked serious. "The Countess has friends in the media; she's managed to convince them to keep it quiet for a few days to let the police see what they can do. We thought we'd find the horse, so that hasn't been let out yet. But, there's no sign of him."

Sherlock now looked more carefully at the man in the tweed jacket. "What happened last night that made you come here, Colonel?"

Ross looked startled again, then looked over at John, as if for reassurance. "How does he _do_ that?"

John tried not to smirk. He just nodded, "best tell him, or he'll start off again on a deductive tirade."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to glower at John. "_Tirade_? I don't do tirades!"

The client just started talking to try to head off the detective. "Last night, we discovered the Wessex trophy has disappeared. Stolen right out of its case in the Silver Room. The horse is worth half a million, and the solid silver cup almost as much, so the police are in a right lather about the whole thing. That's when the Countess decided to send me to you."

John was shocked. "How can a horse be worth that much money? And a racing trophy?"

Now Ross grew even more animated. "Highwood Blaze is just an amazing horse. The Countess lets Rosie Baxter ride him; the pair won the 2012 Olympic Gold last August, before the horse was put up for sale. Of course, Rosie is gutted to be losing the horse; the Wessex Cup was to be her swan song before Blaze is sent off to his new owner in America. To find that the cup itself is now gone, too- well, it's a lot for an eighty year old to take in her stride, even if she is the Countess. So, she wants you to take the case."

Sherlock was trying his best not to think about the horse; he tried to push away the thought of how Highwood Blaze would move, its quick response to the most subtle of a rider's touches, the combination of muscular power and years of training, working in partnership with a rider. It was not possible to put a price tag on that. But, something else in the man's story made Sherlock tilt his head in interest- an oddity in the combination of data that attracted his attention. There was no doubt that the case was not boring. _But would that be enough?_

John watched his flatmate wrestling with something, and realised that Sherlock was about to turn Ross down. That annoyed the doctor. This seemed a perfect case- mysterious and complicated enough, not even Sherlock could say it was boring. And he realised that he really did want to take it, to get the chance to ride again.

Before Sherlock could gather breath to tell the client that he was not going to accept the work, John intervened. "Right, Colonel Ross, I'm wondering if you'd like to do us a favour. Before Sherlock gives you an answer, could you give us a few minutes to discuss it in private? There is a café right downstairs that does a decent sandwich, perhaps a spot of lunch is called for, before you return to Cheltenham?" He stood up and gestured towards the door, almost bundling the man out and down the stairs before Sherlock could react.

When he returned it was to be met by a consulting detective sitting with his arms folded across his chest and a very annoyed look on his face. "And just what was all that about, John?"

"You were going to turn him down; I could see it."

"So, what business is it of yours whether I take a case or not?"

That irked John. "Well, since _your_ cases tend to be _our_ cases these days, I thought I might like to have a chance to explain why _I_ would like _us _to take this case on." So, he did just that. At length and in detail, his account sprinkled with the occasional comment that for just once, he'd like his own interests to be accommodated. "God knows, Sherlock, I've been happy to follow you into the rougher areas of industrial London, through contaminated landfill sites, diving into dumpsters and hauling up dead bodies from the Thames. For once, just once, why can't we take a case on that has the added benefit of some fresh air, open space, rolling countryside and the chance for me to get back on a horse after three years? Is it remotely possible for you to consider the needs of someone else for once before making a decision?"

Sherlock listened to the increasingly emotional doctor's frustration come pouring out as he paced around the living room. The temptation to stop John's flow with a well-timed sneer was very strong, but he held back. It might lead the doctor to question his motives, and that was an area he was not willing to explain. Just thinking about it hurt. So he stuffed it all back into that tiny box room in his mind palace basement, double-locked the door and slammed the bolt across very firmly.

The doctor had stopped his pacing and was now standing in front of Sherlock in his chair. "It's not a boring case. Don't you _dare_ say that it's boring."

Sherlock thought about it, and said honestly "I didn't say it was boring, did I?"

"Then why reject it?"

He was caught and he knew it. Either he was going to have to re-open that door, admit why or just conceded defeat and accept the case. He sighed. "Oh, all right, John. If it means that much to you, _we_ can take the case."

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you saw Benedict Cumberbatch's interview about his part in The War Horse, then you will know why I want him around horses again- which is where the inspiration for this story came from.


	3. Chapter 3

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

John woke early the next morning and, after shaving and a shower, threw open his suitcase and considered what he should pack. He had no idea how long the case would take, so he took several pairs of trousers, three shirts and two pullovers, a jacket and tie (_after all, she is a Countess, and Musgrave Hall sounds like an impressive country pile)_, and then some more casual things, plus underclothes, pyjamas, his wash bag- and, of course, a couple of books and then his laptop. He smirked. He had a nearly full case. It was like going on holiday.

That said, it was pouring with rain in London. This was England after all, so he found an umbrella, and a waterproof jacket and added them to the pile.

Then he threw in a pair of his old army boots, so that if he did get the chance to ride, he'd at least be able to keep his feet in the stirrups. He couldn't help but be excited at the prospect. Even if that didn't happen, the boots would come in handy if they had to do any case work in the fields. He was determined to find an excuse for a ramble or two around the grounds. He loved London, but he was looking forward to the chance to see some grass that wasn't mown into perfect stripes or covered with sunbathing Londoners on their lunch breaks. Add to that the chance of getting on a horse again, and he would be in seventh heaven.

When he went downstairs to see how his flatmate was getting on with his packing, he was surprised to see Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, in full mad scientist mode- fiddling with his microscope and examining one of what seemed a huge box of slides in front of him.

"Sherlock, we need to get to Paddington in less than an hour. I do hope you're all packed."

Sherlock didn't look up but waved dismissively behind him, in the general direction of his coat and scarf. John looked and saw beneath the Belstaff on its hook a small hold-all, the sort one might use to squeeze gym kit into. It didn't even look big enough to serve as an overnight bag. And Sherlock's laptop bag was there, too.

John snorted. "Unless you are planning to solve this in a single afternoon, you're going to need to re-pack- and find something bigger."

Sherlock slipped the slide off the microscope stage, made a few notations in his notebook and slipped the next one onto it. "It will do."

John wondered if this was a reaction to his insistence about taking on the case. Was he going to face a day-long sulk? He hoped not.

But later on the First Great Western 9:15 train from Paddington to Cheltenham Spa, he started to wonder again why Sherlock had ever agreed to take the case. From the moment the pair took their seats, Sherlock opened his laptop and started typing in data from his pencil scratchings in the notebook. He ignored John's attempts to engage him in conversation, and after a half hour, John decided to go get a coffee and then retreat to his own newspaper. Usually, when they started on a case, Sherlock's natural enthusiasm meant that he enjoyed showing off his knowledge of the crime or at least the context in which it took place. This time, it was as if he was purposefully telling John he wasn't interested in the case.

The rain that had been falling as a steady drizzle at Baker Street was turning into a full-blooded storm. Rain pelted the side of the train windows, which became increasingly splattered and hard to see out of. Despite it being midday, the sun was nowhere to be seen. Hardly an image of holiday. John started to feel his enthusiasm dampening the further they got from Paddington.

A half hour later, the effect of the coffee and his morning tea meant he headed for the loo at the end of the carriage. While he was washing his hands, his phone vibrated. Juggling with a paper towel and his phone, while trying to keep his balance in a moving train, he spotted the caller ID- Mycroft.

"Hello." He tried not to sound too resigned. Calls from Mycroft were seldom good news.

"Oh dear, Doctor Watson; is he already giving you grief?" The doctor could hear the smirk, as well as visualise it.

"Mycroft; I'm kind of in the middle of things here, but if you rang to be rude about your brother, be quick about it. What can I do for you?"

"Well, two points. First, I want to congratulate you on your powers of persuasion. My PA and I placed a bet on whether Sherlock would agree to take on the Musgrave Case. I am delighted to say that I lost."

John was looking at his reflection in the toilet mirror, and he realised just how much that combination of sentences confused him. _Why would Mycroft be __happy__ to lose a bet on this?_ No actually, what bothered him even more was that somehow Mycroft knew exactly what had happened the previous day. _Got to check again for bugs; he's so damn devious!_

The train bumped over a bad section of track and lurched to the right, nearly throwing John off his feet. He decided brevity was the right response, "And the second point?"

"I am willing to bet you a significant sum that you will not be able to get him on a horse."

"Why?"

"Ah, that's for Sherlock to answer. To be truthful, I don't know why. He's never told me. And I would _really_ like to know, so you will get a consolation prize if you can manage to get an explanation out of him, even if you do fail to get him back in the saddle."

John realised that his reflection was showing him that he was suspicious. _Yes, well, when am I __not__ suspicious of Mycroft?_ "Why?" he tried to make it sound innocent, but knew that this was Mycroft, after all, the only person he knew able to give Sherlock a run for his money when it came to deducing motives.

"If you do manage to get him riding, you will know why I ask the question, John. That will have to do for now; I'm due in a meeting with someone who likes to think they run the Government." The call ended and John was left staring down at his phone with a perplexed look.

When they reached Bristol Parkway and changed trains, they had a fifteen minute wait for the Crosscountry service, so John decided it was time to try to get somewhere. He had his eye on a new laptop –_maybe one with a fingerprint keypad for added security against flatmates able to deduce passwords._ Or as a consolation prize, a new mobile phone. He wouldn't do this if he weren't curious himself. But, the enigmatic reversal – Sherlock's initial instinct to refuse, followed by his reluctant decision to accept the case made John very curious indeed.

"Sherlock, what did Colonel Ross mean when he said that he thought you had not kept up 'your interest in eventing'? And how do you know so much about the training yards out in Gloucestershire?"

There was a pause. "It doesn't matter; it isn't relevant to solving the crime. You know I don't like to speculate until we actually see the crime scene."

"But, do you ride?"

"I did; long time ago. Don't now. Haven't been on a horse for twenty years. It isn't relevant to the case. No need to waste time thinking about it."

John knew from experience that when Sherlock resorted to staccato phrases rather than his usual fluency, he was bothered by something. But, he also knew that when this 'tell' became evident, trying to get him to talk would be like pulling blood from a stone. So he decided to wait.

The final half hour train journey passed in silence.

When they emerged from Cheltenham Spa station, it was still pouring with rain. John started to head for the long queue of passengers at the taxi rank, but was pulled up short by Sherlock, who snagged the doctor's jacket sleeve and pulled him around in the opposite direction. John was juggling an umbrella and his suitcase, but Sherlock was just getting wet, not that he seemed to mind. He pointed at a Landrover in the car park, and John saw the writing on one of its doors- "Musgrave Hall"- discrete, yet somehow speaking volumes about the money behind the Countess of Southrop.

When they got closer to the 4x4, the window on the driver's side came down and Colonel Ross called out: "Sling your gear in the back, gentlemen, and get in before we all get soaked." Sherlock was first to react, and climbed in the back seat, leaving John to take the front seat beside the Colonel.

"Right you are, we've now got less than a half hour drive. Musgrave Hall is 12 miles as the crow flies due south from here, between Bisley and Painswick. Doctor Watson, do I take it that you are unfamiliar with rural Gloucestershire?"

"Can't say that I've ever done anything more than drive through it on the way to other places-so what you can see from the M5 is it for me, I am afraid."

"Oh dear, that's like judging London from what you can see from the train coming into Paddington Station. Let me enlighten you. This is the bit of the world that isn't Cotswold twee, but it has all the rolling hills, dramatic landscapes, and rural countryside that hasn't been Disney-fied or bought up by rich Londoners with more money than sense. It's also some of the UK's finest horse country. We hunt, we shoot, we fish, but above all, we _ride_."

John smiled at the man's enthusiasm. "When did you get involved, Colonel?"

"I'm a Gloucester man, born and bred. Went off to the first Gulf War and did my bit for Desert Storm, and then came back to a place where green means the fields and not a line drawn in the sand that says on one side you're safe and on the other, you're the enemy. I've always ridden, and when the Countess wanted someone to whip her horse yard into shape and make it a place of choice for event horse owners, well, I jumped at the chance. See, I never had the money to afford a great horse, and in our business, it's the horse which is more important than the rider."

John was intrigued. "You sound like my Chapandaz- he swore that riders could be taught but great horses were the key to winning. It was all in the breeding."

"Well, he's a smart man. The Countess would agree. Her great stallion, High Wood, was a fantastic event horse, won everything going ten years ago. That's what makes losing Blaze such a pain. She bred the three of them to try to find just one to take his place, and Highwood Blaze is the one to do it."

John looked around as the suburbs of Cheltenham gave way to fields. They were on the A417 heading southwest. John was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that Sherlock had not spoken since he got in the 4x4. He hoped the Colonel would not take offence.

"So, there are three Highwood horses?" Maybe if they talked more about the case, Sherlock would wake up and take an interest.

Colonel Ross put his wipers on a faster speed, because the rain seemed to be coming down even harder. "Well, she called it the 'tom, dick and harry' strategy because it was to be our Great Escape for the horse business of the Estate, but when it came to it, the three colts were going to be called Highwood Alpha, Bravo, Charlie- three full brothers out of the Gatcombe broodmare, Soldier Girl. When the second one was born, he had such a stripe on his face that Bravo got changed to Blaze. Alfie and Charlie are still at the yard. If a Highwood horse had to be stolen, I wish to God they'd taken one of the other two. Alfie is a brat, and Charlie the youngster's too soft, doesn't have the guts to be a good eventer. Blaze is 'just right', well, that's what Rosie Baxter says, and she's been riding him for the past five years."

They turned left off the main road, with signposts to Great Witcombe and Birddip. The countryside very quickly became more rugged, with wooded hills interrupting the green pastures and fields. Houses disappeared from view, to be replaced by single track roads, down which farms might be found, if the signs were to be believed. Even in the rain, it looked invitingly rural and just about as different to John's eyes as it could be from the London cityscape.

A few minutes later, the Colonel turned right onto a road that simply said B4070, and then, when this split, took the right hand fork, which seemed to rise through a valley surrounded on both sides by steep wooded hills. As he pushed the Landrover into lower gear to tackle the climb, the Colonel said "We're on the Countess's land now- that's Blackstable Wood to the right and Longridge Wood to the left. You can't see High Wood from here; it's in place where no public roads can reach."

"How many times have you been here, Mr Holmes?" The colonel looked into the rear view mirror to see if he could catch Sherlock's eye. The silent man was looking out at the rain swept landscape.

"Once."

John winced at the lack of …what? Interest? No, there was something more sharp underlying Sherlock's tone. As if it had not been a particularly pleasant experience. Or, perhaps, it was just a way of shutting down the army man's enquiry.

Undaunted, Colonel Ross went on. "Musgrave Hall has been in the family since the sixteenth century. It's a bit of a rambling house, added onto over the centuries – a venerable wreckage of a feudal keep!"

The road was now reduced to a single tarmacked track as it bore to the left and swept around the brow of the Longridge Wood. They went through a small hamlet of houses, and then turned left off the B4070. As they came almost 180 degrees about, a gap in the trees opened and on the edge of the hamlet, there was the Hall in front of them. As the wipers beat time with the rain, John discerned grey stone, arches and mullioned windows. The Colonel's description was an accurate one- in the gloom and the rain, Musgrave Hall looked like a Hollywood film set. _Complete with murder, theft and various misdeeds- probably even has a resident ghost. _

* * *

**Author's note: ** If he was a rider, then Sherlock would have a riding crop to use in the mortuary in the Study in Pink. If you want to get a sense of the lay of the land for this story, use Google earth and search for Twyning's Wood, Painswick, Stroud District, Gloucestershire. Then pan to the left and you will find High Wood, and interestingly enough, an equestrian facility. Musgrave Hall is a figment of the imagination of Arthur Conan Doyle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

The Landrover went up the drive to Musgrave Hall and then around to the left to enter a quadrangle formed by a series of low outbuildings, attached at one corner to the Hall. The Colonel parked.

"Right. We've got rooms in the Hall set up for you. Officially, the house doesn't open until the Countess comes up from London next week, but her nephew arrived this morning, as soon as he heard about the theft of the Wessex Cup. He's not one to take an interest in the horses, but when it comes to the family silver, that's a different matter. I'll get someone to take your things to your rooms, and then join you in the Library. By the looks of it, Detective Pierson is already here." John could see the police car parked on the far side of the courtyard.

They went in a side door, and found themselves in a wide corridor; to the left was what appeared to be kitchens, and then a boot room. A tall man met them, wearing a black uniform jacket and grey trousers which marked him out as one of the staff.

"Ah, my good man; you can get one of the footmen to take our guests' things up. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson; gentlemen, this is the butler, Brunton."

Brunton was a tallish man, handsome with a high forehead; John guessed he must be in his forties. He nodded a polite if silent greeting, then led the way down the corridor and up four stone steps onto the main floor. He knocked at a stout oak door and then entered, announcing,

"Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, sir."

The man who rose from one of the sofas had one of those faces that John always associated with the costume dramas of the Victorian era, thin, long nosed and large eyed, with a languid manner that spoke of centuries of aristocratic privilege, mixed with just a tinge of too much in-breeding.

He crossed the wooden floor of the Library to grasp Sherlock's hand. "Holmes! Has it really been fifteen years?" Sherlock gave one of his slightly pained smiles, extracted his hand and nodded before the man turned his attention to John. "I'm Reginald Musgrave. And you must be Doctor Watson, the blogger," shaking his hand. "I've enjoyed your posts; you make his work sound like something out of Boy's Own tales. Well, I must say I never thought that the Musgraves would be in need of your help, Holmes, but I am glad for it."

Without allowing John the chance to reply, Reginald turned to the other man in the room- a tall, fair man with penetrating blue eyes and a reddish beard, neatly trimmed. "This is Detective Pierson who has some good news which I believe will help your work." He gestured for the pair to sit. Colonel Ross remained standing, but casually leaning on one side of the mantelpiece, as Detective Pierson nodded to them, and began to speak in a heavy West Country accent.

"We've arrested a suspect, a man called Fitzroy Simpson, who was caught snooping around the stables at Capleton-that's about seven miles from here. He had no legitimate reason to be there, and once we had his photo, I showed it to a couple of your Yard staff, Colonel Ross. They recognised him; a grain dealer is how he introduced himself when he came here three days ago. Turns out he's also a bookmaker, and he's been seen at each of the yards of the main Cup contenders over the past month. He couldn't account for his whereabouts on the night when your trainer Stryker was murdered."

Sherlock was eying the detective with some considerable scepticism. John had watched him do the same to the new DIs at the Met; he was not an easy man to impress.

"And you think him to be the culprit? What _evidence_ have you got, apart from the fact that he is nosey."

Pierson took slight umbrage at Sherlock's tone. "Well, he had this in his pocket for starters." He pulled out of his own pocket a horseshoe and handed it to Colonel Ross.

"Damn! This is one of Blaze's shoes!"

Reginald looked surprised. "How can you be sure?"

Ross turned the shoe over. "Look- these are an adaptation of supastuds- the shoe almost every serious eventer uses. We take out the tungsten studs and replace them with titanium- stronger and they give better grip in the hilly conditions of our course. I can check against the ones we put on Alpha and Charlie, but to my eye, this was Blaze's."

"How many other horses do you train at your Yard, Colonel Ross?" John realised that instead of his usual energetic questioning, this was the first time Sherlock had raised himself to enquire about anything to do with the case.

"Twenty in all. It's an important income stream for the estate. I fear that when the news gets out about Stryker's death, a number of the owners may pull their horses from us. He was a respected trainer, one of the very best."

"What can you tell me about the body, Detective Pierson?" Sherlock seemed more interested in the murder than the horse theft, which John accepted was more appropriate.

"I can do better than that, sir." He bent over to take hold of a shoulder-strapped bag, and slipped out a tablet. "Here is the autopsy report, and photos. I thought it would save you the trip into Stroud's mortuary."

As Sherlock scanned the tablet, Pierson summarised for the other men in the room. "Stryker was killed with a single blow to the back of the head- blunt force trauma, delivered with considerable force. The report says he would have been killed instantly as the blow crushed his skull and damaged his neck, too. The body also had a knife wound, deep into his thigh. In fact, the medical examiner says that if he hadn't been killed by the blow to the head, then the wound on his thigh would have done it- right into the femoral artery, it was. Given where the body was found, there was no way he could have managed to get help in time; he'd have bled to death within minutes."

"I'd like to see the scene of the crime before the light goes."

Ross shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but it won't be possible today. The weather is so beastly that we will never manage to get a vehicle up and over the High Wood ridge and down into the bowl where the body was found. Even a 4x4 has its limits in these conditions. The forecast is for a dry morning, so we can try then."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are there any crime scene photos?" The DI shook his head- "They're back at the station in Stroud. I didn't bring them; didn't have time to upload them from the forensic camera onto this tablet."

Sherlock's face made his disapproval patent. "Do send them by e mail when you get back later. The address is on my website. I'm assuming that the hall has broadband?"

Reginald laughed. "Yes, finally convinced Grandmother to get it installed here as well as at the Yard. Wifi doesn't work too well in all this stone, but there are sockets here and in the main drawing room, plus the estate manager's office."

Sherlock seemed edgy, as if he was irritated by the delay at getting to the scene of the crime. John decided to step in before he said something rude. "Could you just talk us through what you think happened, Detective Pierson?"

It was Ross who spoke first. "Best to start at the beginning. Stryker's our head trainer, been here for seven years, married and living in one of the estate cottages. He showed up at the Yard as usual by 5.30am. At this time of the year, we work the horses at first light when it's cool. The rest of the riders took their mounts down the valley to the Wessex cross country course; that runs between Downs Wood and Southmead Lane. Stryker took Blaze up to High Wood on his own; he wanted to work him over the jumps there, far from the eyes of anyone trying to watch. We've had trouble with spotters- locals recruited by the other stables to spy on the preparation work of the favourite."

John was startled. "Is it _that_ competitive?"

Ross's reply was heartfelt. "It isn't the Grand National or the Derby, if you mean it in terms of prize money. Still, the winner's purse for the three day event is nearly as much as Badminton, Burghley or Gatcombe, thanks to the sponsorship of the American company, Nordstrom. They back the USA event team and always enter a few horses of their own, and, of course, the Nordstrom family have bought Blaze for his stud potential." He sighed. "So, you see there is a lot riding on finding the horse. If the Nordstroms don't get him, then it's quite possible they will pull out of sponsorship, too- and that would drastically affect the future of the whole business."

Ross sighed. "When the rest of the riders returned from Downs Wood, there was no sign of Stryker, so I sent the Yard manager Ned Hunter up to see if there was a problem. When he got back almost an hour later, he was in a state of shock, shouting that he'd found Stryker in a pool of blood in the grass at the bottom of the High Wood paddock- and no sign of Blaze."

At this point, Detective Pierson cracked his knuckles and launched into his story. "When it was reported to the police, we took one look at the terrain and decided it would be quickest to take the force's traffic helicopter to the site. You'll see- tracks up into the High Wood are difficult at the best of weathers, and right now, virtually impossible. When I got there, we taped off the scene and looked for trace, but it wasn't easy. Lots of hoof prints, as you'd expect, in the mud a couple of footprints that matched Stryker's boots, and nothing else- just him lying there facedown with the back of his head caved in and a pool of blood from both his head and the thigh wound. Really, I've not come across a crime scene so empty of clues in a long time."

Sherlock gave a slightly condescending smile. "Well, it's not exactly the sort of crime scene that you are likely to have come across, is it? Most murders in these parts are likely to be in the cities and suburbs of Stroud, Cheltenham or Gloucester. Have you even had a single murder in any village this year?" When the detective shook his head, Sherlock continued. "Still, despite the rain and the fact that two days have elapsed, I will be eager to see it for myself tomorrow morning. I am sure I will find something that has been missed."

Before Detective Pierson could take offence at that, John jumped in again. "Tell us, Colonel Ross, why do you think the horse has actually been stolen? The murder could have spooked him into running off. From what I could see on the way up here, there are acres of woods where he could be. In this weather, it would not have been simple to find him."

The military man frowned. "Horses are social animals, Doctor Watson. Blaze knows the grounds well. It might have taken him a day or so, but he'd get hungry. He'd probably have come back to the Yard, if he was able to do so."

Sherlock roused himself again. "You say he's a stallion. Perhaps there is a willing mare at a nearby stable? He could have followed the scent. Has anyone checked with the neighbouring farms?"

"I did- but discretely. I didn't ask if they'd seen Blaze; just asked if one of their mares was in season, because our stallions were acting up a bit."

John was surprised. "I would have thought that telling your neighbours to keep an eye out for a stray horse would be useful, surely?!"

Reginald spoke up. "The Countess has managed to make enemies amongst the locals." He gave a rueful smile. "The nearest of which is at Capleton Stud, in the form of Silas Brown. His horse, Desborough, is the second favourite for the Cup event. The last thing we'd want is for the news that Blaze has gone missing to get out to the main competition. He'd be onto the press like a shot and there it would be seen by the Nordstroms, their purchase of Blaze and probably their sponsorship with it would be done and dusted. No- discretion at this stage is essential."

Now it was Colonel Ross's turn. "To keep gossip down, I've made sure that the riders, grooms and stable staff have not gone anywhere. Given the rain, it's not a day for much work, except in the indoor menage. I assume you'll want to talk to them, so they are up at the Yard. They've got their own accommodation block and a canteen. It's a half mile up the valley, out of sight of the hall. Given the facilities, we needed the space up there. And, as it turned out, the location's ideal, given the crowds that show up when the Wessex Cup event takes place. In less than ten days, we are expecting some 45 horses, their riders, owners and about 7,000 spectators. They come from miles around for the three events. We 've already sent away thirteen of the horses training here that aren't actually competing, because we need their stalls to accommodate everyone, even with the stables we use at Down Barn Farm up the valley. It's closer to the start of the cross country event, so most of the owners prefer to put their horses in there."

At this point, Reginald Musgrave stood up from where he had been lounging back on the sofa. Colonel Ross picked up on his wish to end the discussion. "Right, gentlemen. If you want to freshen up before going up to the Yard, I'll be back down at the Landrover in fifteen minutes."

Reginald shook his head. "Colonel, you know the horses are your fiefdom, not mine, so I will leave you all to it. I'm off to do some business in Stroud - things to do before this evening. Holmes, I hope you and Doctor Watson won't mind having a light supper with me tonight. The kitchen won't be in full gear until the Countess gets back here, but I'm sure they will be able to rustle something presentable up. Over supper at eight o'clock, I'll tell you about the cup and how it's gone missing. Oh, that's another point; I've told Ross, so I'd better tell you- none of the Yard staff know the cup has been stolen; Trying to keep that under wraps, too, so say nothing to them about it when you're up at the Yard. By suppertime, Pierson here might have some more news about the Cup."

The DI looked unsure. "Perhaps. I managed to get a clean print off the trophy case before you got here, and will now check it out back at the station. I want to compare it with Fitzroy Simpson's prints."

Sherlock stood up and so did John. The consulting detective gave the police detective a glance. "I hope the room where the cup was stolen has been properly sealed. I will want to look at that tonight, if at all possible, but until then, so one must be allowed in there. Good day, Detective Inspector." He turned and swept out of the room; John followed. They were met in the hall outside the Library by the butler, Brunton, who took them to their rooms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Five**

* * *

When John popped his head into Sherlock's room, his friend was standing at the window overlooking the front lawns. There was something in the set of his shoulders that told John he was brooding about something. Not the usual fizzing with energy that accompanied a new case, this was something…darker. Rather tentatively, the doctor asked, "Ready?"

Without a word, Sherlock pocketed his phone and followed John down the stairs to the ground floor. At the bottom John hesitated. He couldn't remember which direction to take to find his way back to the kitchen and then out to where the Landrover was parked.

"Just follow me." It was said impatiently, and with a swish of his coat, Sherlock crossed the hall to a door in the left hand corner that led out to the courtyard. It was a shortcut, but one that John had not seen before. _How did he know that? _ Then John remembered that Sherlock told the Colonel he'd been to Musgrave before.

The trip up to the horse yard passed in silence. Once again, John was up in the front because Sherlock had taken the rear. Colonel Ross was concentrating on the road- although he knew it like the back of his hand, the lashing rain and wind made the surface slippery and he concentrated. John sensed Sherlock's unease, but couldn't put a finger on what it was that was bothering him, or, indeed, if there was really something there. It was more an absence- of Sherlock not giving the tiny tells that usually came with the start of a new case. He was withdrawn, for starters. Normally, he seemed to sort of hum with mental energy and enthusiasm when taking in data and thinking things through. Now, John just felt things were _odd._ Or, was he projecting, because he had rather bullied Sherlock into taking the case? The doctor couldn't tell, but it added up to an uncomfortable atmosphere.

Colonel Ross was oblivious to it, however, and when the Landrover drew up to a low modern building, he said cheerfully "just run for cover, gents. I will be right behind you, once I get parked properly." He pointed to a red metal door.

For once, John thought that the phrase "coming down in stair-rods" was accurate- the force of the rain pelting down could be felt on his shoulders right through his jacket, and his face and hair were wet even before he got the red door shut behind him. In front of him, Sherlock had come to a sudden halt, scarcely leaving John enough space to squeeze into the dry. The tall brunet was equally sodden, his hair plastered down rather than its usual unruly curls. But there was something in the stance that alerted John.

"What is it, Sherlock? Are you alright?" John came up beside him so he could see his face. He watched Sherlock's nose wrinkle and the tiniest of grimaces pass like a shadow across his face.

"Sorry, John. The scent's…a bit overpowering."

John looked around the room for the first time. It was a boot room, for want of a better word- one wall adorned with pegs carrying a mad crush of jackets, waterproofs, fleece pullovers, the riding gear of the grooms and yard hands. In jumbled ranks beneath were wellington boots, leather riding boots, street shoes and trainers.

He hadn't noticed the smell, but now took a deep sniff. The aromas were powerful- human perspiration, drying wool, leather, but all pushed aside by the scent of horse. Yes- even with his eyes closed, John knew he was in horse country. It was a scent that he loved. It spoke to him of stables, grass pastures, wind-swept rides, the silent communication between him and his mount, and the solitude, the peace that it brought to him. That was the trouble in Afghanistan- your work colleagues were your social life, too. There was simply no escape, no solitude. To be allowed to spend time alone on a horse was his sanctuary, that moment when the war didn't matter. It kept him sane. He would always associate the smell with that treasured moment when everything else retreated.

The door behind them banged open in the wind, and the Colonel came through, laughing.

"Christalmighty, that's a gale. Glad the horses aren't out in it; be a bitch to bring them back in this muck."

Sherlock spun and looked at him closely. "But, you may well have a horse out there, Colonel, if Blaze has just run off, as opposed to being horse-napped."

That thought sobered the older military man. "Point well taken, Holmes. As much as I don't want someone to have stolen him, at least if it has happened, then they'll be taking care of their investment and protecting him from the beastly weather." He stamped the wet off his shoes. "Shall we go in? There are towels we can use to dry off with in the lounge."

With the Colonel leading the way, the three went down the corridor to a set of double doors and into a room that was half classroom, half living room, and three pairs of female eyes watched them as they entered what was clearly _their_ territory. Ross handed two towels to them before grabbing a third and dying his face. A coffee maker sat in the corner, and Ross headed straight for it to pour himself a cup. "Can I get you two something?"

Sherlock shook his head. He was looking at everything in the room other than the human occupants. John's concern rose another notch. Three new faces weren't usually something that put the consulting detective off, but he was clearly avoiding eye contact at the moment.

Ross looked at John with a question in his eyes, and John realised he was waiting for a reply regarding coffee. "No, thank you."

Ross turned to the main table, where three young women were sitting. "Right then, introductions are in order." His brisk military style was appreciated by the doctor.

"This is Phoebe, Chloe and Sophie. Yes, I know they sound like some sort of tabloid's idea of the names of horsey girls, but in this case, let me assure you that the three of them are the backbone of the operation here. From making sure every horse is well fed, watered and groomed, to taking them out for exercise, couldn't manage it without them. They do all the hard work, the riders just get the glory."

There were a couple of wry smiles from the young women, all of whom looked to be in their early twenties. Phoebe was a petite blonde with short cropped hair, and a feisty looking expression. Chloe was the opposite- long, straight brown hair held back in a ponytail, with a quieter manner. Sophie was the odd one out. Taller, bigger in bone, with black curly hair and a ruddy farmyard blush on her cheeks, she looked like someone who could toss a bale of hay without feeling it. Unlike the others who were looking curiously at Sherlock's back as he studied the wall of photos, Sophie's attention moved from Ross to John and back again.

"Girls, this is Doctor Watson and that's Sherlock Holmes. They are here to see if they can find out what happened to Stryker and Blaze."

A fourth person entered; a tall strapping lad of perhaps thirty. "Ah, and with perfect time, here's Ned Hunter. He manages the Yard side of things, leaving the girls to do the dirty work." That raised a smirk from Phoebe and a scowl from Hunter.

"Where are the riders?" It was a quiet question in a baritone voice that made everyone turn to look at Sherlock. He still had his back to the rest of them, studying the photos- competition winners wearing the ribbons, trophy presentations, action shots of horses over jumps, cross country and in the show ring.

Ross started to reply, but Ned beat him to it. "We've only kept on the seven horses competing in the cup, and the Countess's mount. Three of the riders left are local- based in Stroud, Painswick and Glouscester. Plus Jess Riley rides Blewberry; she's up in Cheltenham, and comes in daily, but didn't today because the weather is so ghastly. Same thing for James Riley, her brother, who rides Merlot. Then there's Simon, who rides Alfie. He should be here; he's got a room up at the Hall. But he's recuperating from his broken leg, so been shipped off to Manchester to be looked after by his mum. Then there's Rosie Baxter- Blaze's rider. She went off to Kent last weekend to see her sister who's having a baby, was expected back two days ago for the final prep for the Cup, but when she heard the news about Stryker and Blaze, well…she took it hard, and hasn't showed up yet."

John looked at Ross for his reaction to that. The Colonel nodded. "Rosie and Stryker were close. She took a room at his cottage as a lodger."

Sophie snorted, and then in a broad country accent added "thick as thieves, those two. Not surprised she can't face coming back. Never sure whether she adored Blaze or Stryker more. With both gone, can't imagine what would keep her here."

Ross scowled. "Thank you, Sophie. I think that Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson would rather not hear gossip. They need facts. How would you like to proceed, gentlemen?"

Ned interjected. "Whatever else, can you please be quick? There are horses to be seen to and jobs to be done. Keeping everyone cooped up in here isn't going to get us ready for the Cup."

This comment finally made Sherlock turn around, and face the young man. "That is assuming there will be an event, Mr Hunter, and that it isn't postponed or even cancelled. We'll speak to you first, then each of the girls individually. Colonel Ross, I am sure you have other duties to attend to; we can see ourselves back to the hall when we are finished."

It was a form of dismissal, and a not very subtle one at that. John nearly winced at the abrupt tone. Really, he was going to have to talk to Sherlock about getting up the nose of clients unnecessarily. But the Colonel did not seem to take exception. Perhaps the military training conditioned him to taking orders, and working for an aristocrat might have helped, too.

If John thought that the Yard staff would have a useful contribution to make to the investigation, he was sorely disappointed over the next ninety minutes. Whilst Sherlock continued to pace near the wall of photos, John sat down at the table and talked to the staff. The consulting detective was listening but did not contribute to the questioning. In a way, the doctor was relieved. In his current mood, Sherlock's manners might alienate them completely. John asked each to tell him what they had experienced on the day when Styker was killed. The girls shed almost no new light on the facts of the case. None of them had been anywhere near the crime scene, having taken their mounts up the valley to the event course. Even Ned Hunter who had discovered the body scarcely added anything, apart from the fact that he'd noticed that the grass at the scene had been badly trampled before he arrived. He'd gone back with the police in the helicopter, and showed them where he had taken his own horse, as well as shown DI Pierson his own prints so they could be eliminated. That point seemed to irritate Sherlock, who sighed impatiently. When the last young woman left the room to return to her duties, John rounded on Sherlock.

"What's eating you, Sherlock? Normally you like playing the inquisitor and I can hardly get a word in edgeways. Here, it's like you can't be bothered, but you don't say anything either. If you don't like my approach, then you should be sitting here at the table, asking the questions."

"Pointless, John. They don't know anything. I _need_ to get to the crime scene before the rain washes everything useful away."

"Well that isn't happening today, so you'll just have to wait."

Sherlock snapped back, "Ask one of the girls to run you back to the Hall. I'm going to walk."

"In the rain? Don't be absurd. You'll get soaked, and you're the one who didn't bring enough clothes."

In response, Sherlock grabbed one of the groom's riding capes off the peg where it had been hanging. "I need to think. The only _useful_ bit of information out of this whole exercise is what the Colonel dismissed as gossip, and I need to think that through."

Without another word, Sherlock threw open the door and disappeared into the howling gale.


	6. Chapter 6

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Six**

* * *

The drive back to the Hall took only a few minutes, but John did not see any sign of Sherlock walking on the road. Colonel Ross gave him the lift rather than one of the grooms, and noticed the fact that John was looking for his flatmate.

"I expect he just took the shortcut path. It's quicker than by road. It might have been twenty years since he was last here, but he strikes me as the sort who'd remember that sort of thing."

"Were you here back then?"

"I wasn't working for the Countess, if that's what you mean. I was still with the Army, just came for the day occasionally, when there were events on and I could manage to get leave."

Then they were back at the Hall, and he dropped John off. "I now live on the estate in one of the tied cottages, so I'm off home. I think Reginald has got you sorted for supper tonight. Tomorrow, so long as it's dry, plan on an early start."

John wandered back up to his room in the Hall. There was a bathroom between the two rooms that Sherlock and he had been assigned, so he decided he would have a hot bath. If Sherlock got in wet and cold from the rain, he might welcome the same, so John would get his ablutions out of the way first.

By six thirty, he was out, dressed and getting a bit worried at Sherlock's continuing absence. He dragged out his phone and checked it. No messages. The signal was very weak, but he sent a text anyway.

**6.31pm If you're still out there, you must be a drowned rat. Come back. JW**

There was no reply. John rationalised that if it was hard to get a signal inside the house, it was probably impossible out in the grounds. Not for the first time since he'd pressured the detective into taking the case, he was filled with a sense of unease. While he was used to Sherlock being remote at times, this seemed to be different.

When there was a knock on the bedroom door, he opened it in a hurry, thinking it would be his friend. A young man stood there, in a uniform. "Mister Reginald asked me to tell you, sir; drinks are served in the Drawing Room at a quarter past seven. Supper will be at eight."

John tried to hide his disappointment. "Thank you…I don't suppose you've seen Mr Holmes, have you?"

"No sir, I was about to ask you the same thing. When you see him, I hope you wouldn't mind passing the details on."

oOo

Over a hefty gin and tonic, Reginald told John that he had been up at Cambridge at the same time as Sherlock, but he was in the year ahead. "And in a different faculty, too. I did Land Economy trying to figure out what to do with this white elephant called Musgrave Hall estate. The science lot were down in Burrell's Field; my rooms were in Blue Boar Court, so not much of a chance to bump into one another. I did look him up once, because my mother asked me to. She and Holmes' mother were friends- they came out together the same year in London. She sort of worried about Sherlock a bit, because his mum died when he was so young, so when she found out he was at Trinity, she pushed me to contact him." He laughed a little self-consciously- "You can imagine how that went down with him."

John kept his host talking about Musgrave Hall and how it was run as a business. Reginald was one of those who liked the sound of his own voice. He pontificated at length on the damage done by governments to the landed gentry. When it came to inheriting from his grandmother, he planned on developing the property with some housing. "Can't afford to keep the old pile going, I fear, so I hope by then the red tape will be cut and we won't get any urban activists telling us not to build on 'green field' sites. If they had the slightest idea what it cost to keep this place looking like something out of the Victorian era, then they just might relent and let us build a few houses for rich weekenders from London and Birmingham."

John kept an eye on the time, and as the minutes went by, he became more concerned about Sherlock's absence. He did not want to have to explain away his friend's rudeness if he stood their host up for dinner.

When Sherlock came into the Drawing Room at five to eight, he was greeted with an audible sigh of relief from John. Sherlock would not meet his eye, but gave a curt explanation to Reginald. "I spent some time re-familiarising myself with the layout of the estate. It could prove important in the timings and nature of any crimes committed here."

As they sat down in the formal dining room, Reginald asked Sherlock whether he thought the place had changed much since he was last at the Hall.

"You've made considerable investment in the Yard and the facilities, and clearly the sponsorship money has been used to good effect in the maintenance of the Hall. The Countess has been fortunate in that, which I presume you were instrumental in negotiating?"

That started Reginald off on a long story about the wooing of the American company, how he'd convinced them that the sponsorship would help their luxury image. "It's a perfect form of corporate hospitality for them. They get to bring their best European customers and to woo their favourite suppliers in an atmosphere that reeks of old money and aristocratic class. For a Swedish emigrant who only got off the boat to America two generations ago, that's an image they are happy to buy."

Sherlock looked a little suspiciously at the soup that was ladled into his bowl by the footman, and shook his head when offered a second helping. John enjoyed the thick carrot and coriander blend and accepted gratefully seconds, as did Reginald.

"Ah, nothing beats a hearty soup on a cold and dreary night!" The heir to the Musgrave estate was not a slim man, and he clearly enjoyed his food. They were offered a second glass of good Chablis; Sherlock abstained again.

He toyed with his soup spoon, but as soon as the footman left the room, he got straight down to business. "You said you would tell us about the theft of the Wessex Cup; I need the details as you know them."

That made Reginald smirk. "Never were much for small talk or social niceties, were you, Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Do you or do you not want to recover the cup, the horse, and find the criminals responsible before you have to cancel the event?"

John winced at the directness of the question, but Reginald just laughed it off. "Right then, I will tell you what I know. Of course, Grandmother telephoned me on the night it happened with the news about Stryker being killed. While unfortunate, it wasn't catastrophic. After all, eventing is a dangerous sport. Lots of accidents, as you know. Then yesterday morning, she rang to say that the police thought it was murder, and that Blaze hadn't been found. That is an issue, given the sale to the Nordstroms has just gone through. Christ, the bank balance was finally in the black, and the thought of having to pay it all back is just too horrible to contemplate. So, I was already on my way when she called again to say that the Cup had been stolen."

As the soup bowls were cleared and plates laid for the main course, Sherlock pressed on. "Where was the trophy kept? I don't recall seeing it when I was last here."

Reginald just chuckled. "Oh, Grandmother is more careful about the silverware than she is about her jewels. The Silver Room is kept locked all the time; no one has a key apart from her and Brunton, the butler. We don't advertise the fact that it's kept on the premises. Hell, most of the Yard staff have no idea."

Sherlock looked at the footman who had arrived at his shoulder, bearing a silver platter with grilled Dover sole fillets. He used the fish servers handed to him to select one of the smallest, and transferred it to his plate.

As the footman went to John, he returned to his questioning. "Presumably, it was Brunton who discovered the cup was missing?"

"Yes. He went in to do his usual dusting routine- he's the only one allowed in there, no other staff."

Sherlock digested this comment. "I should like to interview him after dinner- and to examine the room. I assume that it has been sealed since the local police finished?"

"Yes- but as you told Pierson that you were going to do it tonight, I see no problem."

"Then one last thing, before I let you get to your sole. When Pierson gets back to you, he will say that the fingerprint he lifted from the case has nothing to do with Fitzroy Simpson. Without any real evidence, he will have to let his 'suspect' go."

"How the hell do you know that?" Reginald's surprise was genuine.

He did not hide his smirk. John took that as a sign of Sherlock making progress with the case. He was beginning to formulate ideas, not that he would share them yet. But some of the detective's trademark cockiness had crept into his manner since the afternoon session at the Yard. John relaxed a bit and enjoyed his fish.

* * *

Author's note: As it's my 33rd wedding anniversary today, I thought I would give you a double dose- another chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Seven:**

* * *

More of that trademark confidence and engagement was evident after dinner. John could see that Sherlock was itching to get started in the Silver Room, and could hardly contain himself when Reginald suggested that the three of them "retire to the Library for coffee, chocolates and brandy."

"No, thank you. We have a crime scene to investigate." John was full of good food, great wine and might have enjoyed the moment to digest before getting back to work, but his views were not taken into consideration. And seeing Sherlock motivated again to his usual levels of enthusiasm was enough dessert for him.

Reginald waved them down the corridor. "I will leave you in Brunton's capable hands; I'll be next door, if you need me." The butler took them to the Silver Room and unlocked the door. Sherlock ripped the yellow police tape off the door frame and walked in, while directing a question to the butler. "Tell me about the security arrangements."

"We use a double key security protocol- not only is the door locked, but the different cabinets are locked, as well. It was a condition of insuring the Wessex Cup, so it was put into effect for the others, too."

It was a strange room. Slightly oddly shaped, it was about four meters deep, but barely three wide, yet not a rectangle either. There was an uneven flagstone floor unsullied by carpet or rugs. Situated next to the front entrance lobby, it might have once served as an anteroom for what in Elizabethan times might have been a great hall, but which now served as the Library. This room's walls were lined with shelves as well, but the locked floor-to-ceiling cabinets had trophies- cups, platters, plates, and ribbons, all meticulously labelled. Some of the Musgrave Plate was in here, too- great soup tureens, tea services, some old silver goblets, too. On the side opposite the wall with the Library was a small fireplace with a carved stone mantelpiece. The room felt older and more in keeping with its sixteenth century origins than the rest of the rooms which had been updated to suit modern tastes.

In the middle was a free-standing cabinet, conspicuously empty with an open door, and signs of a police dusting for finger-prints. John was drawn to it, but Sherlock kept his eyes on the rest of the room, scanning the floor, walls and ceiling. Then he noticed the small window between two cabinets. He walked over and took out his pocket magnifier, examining it carefully.

"Fused- the glass has been glued into the stonework and the window no longer opens."

Brunton nodded. "Another precondition for the insurance."

The detective suddenly leaned into the pane. "John, have you got your Maglite?" The doctor pulled the torch from his pocket, and handed it over to Sherlock, and peering himself at the window. The detective put his face scarcely an inch away from the pane of glass. "Look, that tiny filament is a pressure sensitive monitor. Someone tries to break in, and an alarm goes off." He stood back up and asked the butler, "Where?"

"The estate manager's office."

Sherlock grimaced and shook his head. "…which is not manned at night, presumably."

"Not anymore, when we cut back on the number of house staff last year, we couldn't afford someone on duty all night. But if the alarm goes off, one of the two footmen would hear it; their quarters aren't far."

Sherlock was now scrutinising the free standing cabinet. "Also alarmed."

"Yes. And how the thief got around it, I have no idea. It's triggered by weight, and, believe me, the cup is solid silver, so it weights a LOT. Move the cup off the stand, and the alarm goes off."

Sherlock opened his suit jacket and removed a small roll of tools, plucking a special screwdriver out and used it to start unscrewing a wood panel at the base of the cabinet. "Brunton, when were you last in here, before you discovered it missing yesterday?"

"I came into check whether the Cup would need to be cleaned again before the presentation ceremony. It's early Georgian solid silver and tarnishes ever so easily. That was on Saturday."

The answer surprised Sherlock, who stood up and looked incredulously at the servant. "That means it could have been stolen _before_ you thought. Not the night before last. In fact, it could have been stolen on the same day that Stryker was killed, and you wouldn't have known the difference."

John watched the butler's face, and saw the shock blossom there. "But…the alarm would have gone off…"

Sherlock's distain was clear. "It didn't, did it? You just found the empty case- which could have been empty for at least twenty four hours before you discovered it." The tall man bent down again, and finished unscrewing the special fitting, then pulled the panel off. He reached in and dragged out into view a bundle of wires, several of which were conspicuously cut. He muttered, "idiots."

Standing back up, the detective paced. "That's the trouble with alarms. People install them and then disconnect their brains. You will find that your lack of a human being in the estate manager's office overnight will probably invalidate your insurance- as well as leading the Americans to withdraw their sponsorship. A costly mistake."

The butler looked horrified. "Oh, God…the Countess will be devastated. Losing the horse and the money from the sale, now the cup…" His voice tailed off. The implications were clear. Despite the aristocratic lineage of the Hall's owner, the cash flow implications of the recent spate of disasters threatened the Musgraves' future.

Sherlock now returned to scanning the rest of the room's contents. "Have any idea how much the rest of the silver in here is worth?"

The man looked startled. "I've got an inventory. We had to have it valued for the insurance. I can get it for you now, if it's important."

The detective gave him one his manufactured smiles. "You do that."

Once they were alone, John watched Sherlock prowling. "Look around you John, what do you see?"

John glanced around. "A lot of silver."

"Precisely! If you were a thief, why take a well-known piece, even one as valuable as the Wessex Cup, when in the same room, you could have taken silver worth more?"

"Uh, maybe because it's just one piece, and you'd need help to carry away all of this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It would be worth it, to wheel a handcart in here, to be able to take all this away. Unlike the cup, most of this is untraceable. Fence-able -easy to dispose of without getting caught."

He started to pace again. His stride lengthened as he covered the four meters, spun about and came back.

The doctor could see the agitation growing in his friend's demeanour. "What is it? What's bugging you?" As he walked, the brunet was rubbing the first knuckle of his left index finger with his thumb. An odd little clue, he always did it when he couldn't control his nervous energy any longer.

The detective was muttering. "Something is not right. No, worse than that. It's _wrong_. Something's out of sorts, out of kilter, disordered. This place…is…driving me crazy."

"Whoa, Sherlock. Slow down, what do you mean?"

"For God's sake, John, just look around you. This house is a nightmare. It's full of odd nooks, crannies and angles. Nothing is accurate, true or perpendicular. Walls curve or bend. I mean, just look at the beam over the fireplace; it must be at least five degrees off a true horizontal. It just…makes me uncomfortable."

"Well, not all of us are so OCD, Sherlock. And the last time I looked it wasn't against the law. I _like_ places like this- full of character. For the same reason I like Baker Street- it isn't predictable or sanitised. I mean the Hall probably has a resident ghost, some lost cavalier hoping for the return of Bonny Prince Charles."

"You are _hopelessly_ sentimental, John. Places like these are just bricks and mortar hanging about the neck of the next generation that hasn't got a clue how to keep them afloat."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. "OH!" The exclamation was followed by a tiny smile. And the edgy panic that had been building in his eyes vanished, to be replaced by amusement.

"What is it? Have you figured something out?"

Sherlock brought his hands under his chin and stared off into the distance. "Not completely yet, but it's coming. Give Musgrave my apologies; I'm off to bed, to think. Lots of little pieces, this puzzle."

John tried not to think of how 'the puzzle' had cost the life of a man, and threatened the livelihood of one of England's oldest families. To Sherlock, the case itself would always be more important than its victims.


	8. Chapter 8

**Musgrave Blaze**

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**Author's Note: **At last, the chapter people have probably been waiting for! Longish, but I hope it delivers….tell me what you think in the box at the bottom.

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**Chapter Eight**

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The next morning dawned bright and sunny, if a bit breezy. Sherlock was already awake and dressed when John knocked on his door. "Ross said we should meet him at the Yard." The doctor put on his army boots; after yesterday's storm, he figured mud would be an issue. He looked a bit askance at Sherlock's choice of clothing- a clean shirt was the only concession; otherwise, it was his usual suit and leather shoes.

"You're not exactly dressed for the country, are you?"

Sherlock frowned. "It's irrelevant, John. As is breakfast, unless you are desperate."

As much as the doctor would have enjoyed a full English fry up, he judged Sherlock's mood and decided against it. "I'll grab a coffee at the Yard."

Sherlock led him to the start of the footpath. "It takes eleven minutes to walk from here; almost the same time it took to drive yesterday. And we don't have to wait." The path led through the park land surrounding the Hall, dotted with impressive old trees, surrounded by metal estate fencing. Yesterday afternoon in the driving rain and gloom, John had not been able to see or appreciate the view. Now in the breezy morning sunshine, he could and did. There were a number of champion trees, obviously hundreds of years old. The first one, which marked the start of the foot-path, was an ancient oak with a tremendous girth. At the brow of the hill on the northeast horizon, John could see a line of trees. When after nearly ten minutes they came up to the Yard, John realised that it was in fact two parallel lines of trees that had been cut and shaped for years to form a perfect tunnel of green shade, between them ran a track of soft sand.

Sherlock saw John's curiosity about it. "Lime avenues were popular in Georgian times; afternoon walks in the shade for the ladies. They put the sand down to help the horses get better traction than on grass. The cross country course starts at the far end."

When they entered the low buildings of the Yard offices, Sophie was coming out, carrying a walkie-talkie. "Got a problem, guys. I'm just off in the second Landrover to rescue Ned- he's mired up the wheel arches in mud, trying to get onto the High Wood track."

They found the Colonel in the corridor. He was dressed in riding gear- jodhpurs and short boots, a fleece jacket emblazoned with the Musgrave coat of arms. "Plan B, I am afraid. Mud's too bad for a 4x4, so we will have to ride there. Actually, it's quicker on horseback; we can take a couple of shortcuts. You wanted to ride, Doctor Watson, so here's your chance."

"Brilliant!" John could not contain his delight. He glanced over at Sherlock, and his smile vanished. Sherlock had gone absolutely still. It was a strange sensation; it was if the detective had just shut down. There was no expression at all on his face. To someone who didn't know him the way John did, they might not have realised. But, to John, who was Sherlock's weathervane and sensitive to the slightest breeze of his friend's moods, it was shocking.

"Sherlock?" John said his name tentatively. "Are you alright?"

The question seemed to reanimate the lanky brunet, who merely said quietly, "I would prefer to walk, Colonel." He started to head for the door.

"Don't be absurd, Holmes, it will take you more than an hour to get there on foot; you don't know the way, and I can't take one of the staff off their duties to guide you. Besides, the forecast is not good, more thunderstorms are expected this afternoon, so even if you were to walk, you wouldn't get back before the skies open again."

John closed the distance between him and his friend. "Come on, Sherlock; you're the one who is keen to see the crime scene. Just do this."

Sherlock gestured down at his clothing. "As you can see, Colonel Ross, I am not dressed for such an activity."

The retired army man smiled. "Then lucky for you, the Countess has taken care of that! Gentlemen, in the changing room down the corridor past the lounge you will find the proper gear. She was so delighted with you taking the case, she thought it would be an appropriate token of her appreciation. She knows you don't take payment, Holmes." He gave a rueful smile. "Lord knows, if you did, we wouldn't be able to afford you."

John looked puzzled. "How on earth would she know what sizes we take?"

The Colonel beamed. "She's quite clever, you know. Rang up your brother as soon as I told her that you'd taken the case, when I saw you up in London. She got the name of Holmes' tailor; turns out the place had both your measurements on file. Something about a white tie event you needed to gate crash for a case? It's not tailor made, just off the peg stuff, but as close as she could get it. So, no excuses. Get kitted up and meet me in the stable block in fifteen minutes."

He turned and went out the door. John was eagerly heading down the corridor when he realised that Sherlock wasn't following. He stopped and looked back. Sherlock was stationary, looking vaguely out the window by the door.

"Come on, Sherlock. I know it's been a while, but it won't kill you to get back on a horse. You know it's the logical solution. So, let's just do it, okay?" Reluctantly, Sherlock followed John into the changing room where they found two large boxes.

John took his to one of the benches, and opened it up. "It's Christmas!" he shouted with glee. There, nestled in tissue paper was a pair of beige coloured jodhpurs, a white shirt and the most gorgeous pair of brown riding boots he'd ever seen. The scent of new leather was just heavenly. He stripped off and put the clothing on, revelling in the feel of the clothing and how well it fit. There was a mirror on the side of the line of lockers in the centre of the room, so he walked over to it to admire the view. The jodhpurs and shirt fitted him perfectly, but the boots were the bit he liked the most- up to his knee, they lengthened the line of his leg and made him feel taller. _If only the Chapandaz could see me now._ He smiled at the memory; he'd worn the local afghan clothes to sit comfortably in their saddles; army gear just didn't work, and jeans chaffed like hell; all the seams were in the wrong places for riding.

When he came around the line of lockers, he saw Sherlock sitting on the bench at the far end. He had changed his trousers, but not yet pulled on the shirt. He held one of the new black boots across his lap, looking at it forlornly.

"I'm not sure I can do this, John."

The doctor came up to him. "Sure you can. You can do anything if there's a crime scene at the end of it. I've watched you endure things you loathe, cope with people you detest- Hell, I've even seen you be polite to your brother, for God's sake- all in order to do _The Work_. This is just another one of those times."

Sherlock's expression slowly cleared, and then hardened into the more familiar sharp lines. "Give me a few minutes. I will join you in the stable block."

John nodded and made his way back down the corridor. While he was worried about Sherlock's strange mood, the blond doctor couldn't resist smiling. Even the crisp snap of his new leather boot heels on the tile floor was a sound he enjoyed hearing.

The smile grew even broader as he went into the stable block next to the offices. This was a modern building, but the smells were as familiar as the Afghan village where he had last enjoyed them. _Horse_- in all its glory- a heady melange of grass, manure and sweat held in the sawdust and straw of the stalls.

The Colonel beckoned him to a stall half way down the line. Sophie then came out of it, leading a lovely dappled grey mare.

"This is Morag. She's the Countess' own mount. Half Arab, half Welsh cob, all sense and sensibility. The Welsh cob improves the Arabian stock, makes her stride longer, gives her more strength, too. For a short while, she can keep up with the big boys here and has a great temperament. She'll suit your height and give you a good ride. Knows the grounds better than any horse here. I think you'll like her."

One look into the mare's soulful dark eyes, and John was in love. He really didn't understand why he liked horses so much, but he did. It was almost instinctive. His hands ran down her neck and onto her shoulder. He came up close to her side, just breathing in her scent, and she did the same to him. He lifted his hand, palm up and she lipped it. "Didn't have time to have a coffee, girl, so no sugar lumps, I am afraid."

Sophie smiled. She was a tall girl and made the mare look almost a pony, but beside the grey's head with her hand on the bridle, you could tell that she loved taking care of the horses. "I'll tack her up for you, and then take her into the ménage."

John looked up at her, and saw Sophie's eyes widen at the something behind him. Under her breath, she muttered, "Jeez" and gave a low wolf whistle of appreciation. Then she blushed in embarrassment and beat a retreat, taking the mare down the central aisle. When John turned to look at what had provoked such a reaction, Colonel Ross was greeting Sherlock. And John understood the young woman's response. If the blond doctor thought the riding gear enhanced his appearance, he had not anticipated what it would do for Sherlock. His white jodhpurs emphasised his already lean physique; the black leather riding boots showed off his long legs. The white loose shirt and open collar, topped with his dark unruly curls made him look…amazing- like something out of a Hollywood film.

As usual, Sherlock was oblivious of the effect his looks had on other people. Colonel Ross greeted him with a smile. "We've got Doctor Watson sorted with a mount. I'll be riding Highwood Charlie to give him a bit of exercise. If you're willing, Alfie is desperate for an outing. With Simon laid up with his broken leg, he's not had anywhere near as much work as I'd like. None of the girls is really comfortable on him. But he should suit you."

Sherlock didn't answer, but he followed the Colonel across the central corridor to one of the stalls. John came to look in alongside Ross, as Sherlock looked over the stall door. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then unbolted the door and walked in.

Highwood Alpha was a big bay horse with not a spot of white on him. Tall- nearly 17 hands by John's guess- and high spirited, too, if his slightly spooked movement around the walls of the large box stall was anything to go by. Sherlock stood in the middle, and oddly, did not look directly at the horse, which paced around him nervously.

"A Dutch Warmblood-Trakehner cross."

Ross nodded. "Got it in one, Mr Holmes. The height comes from the dam, but his temperament is pure High Wood. Alfie can be a moody SOB at times, and stubborn as hell. That's what makes Blaze such the better horse. He got his dam's disposition, and the stallion's strength; unfortunately, Alfie got it the other way around. And Charlie's just soft, like his dam. Makes me wonder whether there's any High Wood in him at all."

The horse had quietened down a bit and now was looking curiously at the still figure standing in the middle of its stall. It came up behind Sherlock and reached out its neck, baring its teeth. Ross started to warn Sherlock, but before he did, the brunet just reached up and pushed the horse's nose up and ducked under its neck to stand with his back to the horse's chest. With its head now over Sherlock's shoulder, there was literally nothing for the horse to nip, so the horse tossed his head in frustration.

"Do be careful, he's a bit of a prankster, so keep your wits about you. He's taken a chunk or two out of Simon," Ross said ruefully.

Behind the Colonel, Phoebe now appeared, carrying a saddle and bridle. Sherlock didn't turn around, but heard the noise and recognised it without looking. "I'll tack up. Just leave it on the door." He was now running his left hand down Alfie's front leg, whilst keeping the other on the Alfie's jaw to stop the horse from reaching him with teeth. That's when he caught sight of the double reined bridle that Phoebe hung up on the hook inside the stall. He looked aghast. "Is that Waterford bit _really_ necessary?"

Phoebe looked at Sherlock as if he was an idiot. "Of course, Alfie's a brute. He leans on the bit terribly. Simon always rides him with a Waterford for cross country."

Sherlock frowned. "That may be so, but I am not Simon. Please find me another bridle, one without the drop band, and with a standard snaffle."

Colonel Ross pursed his lips. "Mr Holmes I really think you should try the horse first before you make any decisions. Alfie's hard mouthed."

Sherlock snorted. "I suppose you use a curb bit, crank noseband and a martingale in the ring, too?"

Phoebe laughed. "Look, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but we've actually ridden this horse." She smirked. "On second thought, I'd love to see what happens. I'll be right back with one of Charlie's bridles."

John had watched the exchange with some amusement. He hadn't a clue what the issue was- the jargon about bridles and bits just went in one ear and out the other. One thing he did know was that he was looking forward to riding an English leather saddle. The Afghan saddles used by the Buskashi riders weren't exactly known for their comfort- basically wooden with a thin layer of leather. They seemed to have more padding for the horse's sake than the rear end of the rider. His hand was stroking the soft leather of the saddle hanging over the stall door.

Colonel Ross turned now to John. "Right, join us in the ménage when you are sorted, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson, let's put you up on Morag and let me see how you get on."

They stopped briefly in the tack room, to pick up a riding helmet. Then out of the stable block and in through a side door to a huge indoor riding area. At one end there were show jumps set up- and Chloe was down there schooling a horse over them. At the other end of the shed a rectangular arena was set up with low boards marking the boundaries. There was a set of bleachers at the narrow end of the rectangle to give spectators an elevated view.

Sophie was waiting with two horses, another big bay, which John assumed was the Colonel's mount, Highwood Charlie, and the grey mare. She gave John a leg up, then shortened the stirrups a bit, asking him to try the new length out.

The Colonel went up a few tiers in the bleachers to sit. "Yard rules, Doctor Watson. Everyone who rides one of our horses has to do a session in here before we let you out on the grounds. So, take her around the arena, give me a circuit each at walk, trot and canter, please."

Feeling a bit self-conscious, John picked up the reins and tightened his thigh muscles, bringing his knees in. Morag responded to his encouragement and headed into the ring. The first circuit at a walk gave him a chance to find his centre of balance with the horse, and to appreciate her responsiveness. She had a lovely stride and kept her head steady, ears flicking back towards him every once in a while. He found himself talking to her quietly.

Ross called out to him as he passed the bleachers. "Keep your heels down a bit; these stirrups aren't as wide as the Afghan gear, so you'll find it helps your balance. When you're ready, take her into a nice slow trot please." All he had to do was lean forward and the mare moved into her next gear. He posted, matching her rise and fall. The Afghans didn't do so; they just stood in the stirrups, but then most Buzkashi horses spent the vast majority of their working lives at either a fast canter or a gallop. John decided he preferred the English technique- rather easier on the rear end. He had nearly completed the circuit when he noticed that Sherlock had arrived, leading Alfie. He stayed in the holding area beside the seating, at the edge of the arena, where Sophie was now holding Charlie's bridle. Side by side, the two horses showed their breeding. Alfie was taller, but their colouring and conformation was virtually identical.

Then John kicked his heels into Morag's side and brought her into a rolling canter. And stopped thinking about anything other than the pleasure of feeling her move beneath him. He was a bit rusty- had to keep a lot of things in his mind- heels down, back straight, shoulders loose and hands still. It was a bit like driving a car the first time, when there were so many things to concentrate on that it was hard to relax. But, as he came to the end of the circuit, he felt his confidence returning.

He drew up alongside the tiered seating, and realised he was smiling broadly. "I've _missed_ that. Wonderful. She's brilliant. I just hope I don't make a muck of things and confuse her." He dismounted, and Sophie showed him where to tie her reins to a large metal ring on the wall. He then went up to join Colonel Ross.

Phoebe had also come in and clambered into the bench beside him. She had a cheeky grin on her face. "Got to see this. Alfie is such a brat. I want to tell Simon all about it when his horse eats this smart ass alive."

Sherlock put his foot into the stirrup and in one fluid move, mounted the big bay horse, which moved sideways a bit as his weight came into the saddle. Sophie had taken hold of Alfie's head, but struggled to hang on as the horse arched his neck and pulled away from her. As soon as she knew Sherlock was in the saddle, she let go, the horse prancing sideways nervously.

Sherlock called out. "What would you like?"

"Settle him, then give me a collected and extended trot. Piaffe if you want; throw in passage or two, then collected and extended canter. Hell, do what you think you and the horse can manage, Holmes."

As soon as Sherlock moved the horse into the arena, he let him trot. John realised that whatever he considered riding a horse and what Sherlock was doing were two different things. This was dressage, formal, almost balletic. Where John had to post in a trot to avoid being bounced all over the place, Sherlock just sat. What amazed John was that there was no bounce; it was like Sherlock was welded to the horse, in perfect synch. _How does he do that?_

Colonel Ross shot a grin at Phoebe. "Want to bet on that assumption of yours, young lady? I'll wager Holmes does a better job with Alfie than Simon."

She frowned as her eyes tracked the pair to the centre of the arena where they came to a halt, facing the three observers. Sherlock raised a hand to his helmet and saluted. The horse was still, quiet and composed. Waiting.

Then without any visible sign, the pair were off in a different sort of trot, each step meticulous in its precision, hooves brought up tight and high. The horse's neck bowed into a glorious arch, his head close to vertical. Sherlock kept the double reins taut, but not tight; his hands were steady. John wondered what the second rein was for- he only had one on Morag, and only ever used one in Afghanistan.

Phoebe huffed next to him. "I don't get it. Alfie isn't leaning on the bit, he isn't pulling, and he's got his head still and vertical. The only way we've been able to cure his bad habits has been to strap everything in, and here he's doing it right with nothing on him." The girl looked perplexed. "And where's the wiggle?"

Now it was John's turn to look confused. "Wiggle?"

"Yeah, Alfie's notorious for playing games. Ninety per cent of dressage direction is done through the rider's legs, but no sooner do you give that bugger a signal, and he over-reacts. On purpose- it's like he's playing a game. You give the signal for the horse's haunch or shoulder to come in, and he takes it too far, so you have to give him the signal to bring it back to the centre. It's like a bloody war half the time."

Ross smirked. He pulled out his phone and started taking a video. "Well, he's not wiggling now. Need to show this to the Countess. We've been blaming the horse for all these years, when maybe what he really needed was a different rider."

Sherlock reached the far end of the arena and started a diagonal pass. The horse's outside legs passed in front of his inside legs as he worked his way across. It was a beautifully controlled movement, elastic and fluid. As he came to the arena side, he began yet another kind of trot where the horse seemed to almost prance in slow motion. When the pair crossed in front of the stands, the horse's forward momentum came to a halt, and the same dancing trot was done as if he was marching in place. It gave John the chance to see Sherlock's face. He'd never seen this particular expression before. Intense concentration, and yet a sort of inward gaze that was not really focussing on a particular visual point. It was as if he was using all of his other senses more intensely, so he could let his eyes just rest on the horse's neck. _He looks like he's in a trance._ Then they were off again and the spell was broken. At the far end, the horse going over the jumps had stopped and Chloe was now watching Alfie in the arena.

Alfie's trot changed; now his legs were stretching out to their full length, and his speed across the arena increased. When the pair reached the far side, Sherlock somehow collected the horse again, and executed the trot in place. The pair then walked the end of the rectangle and, as they turned the corner, moved effortlessly into a gentle canter. John watched as the horse's position changed, so his head was turned out more to the wall, but still in a collected canter. Something had happened to the gait, but John couldn't really tell what; he was no expert, although Sherlock clearly was. They crossed in front of the stands, and went back up the arena, but this time the horse's head was angled toward the centre of the arena. Sherlock turned him down the centre line and then the horse changed its leading leg every second stride of the canter. When they reached the end, right in front of where the three of them were sitting, Sherlock leaned back and the horse did a pirouette, turning while still at a canter pace, his forelegs coming up off the ground, taking sidewise steps with his front legs in a circle, pivoting on the back legs and coming completely around, before heading off back down the centre. This time, the flying lead changes took place at every stride.

John heard Phoebe mutter beside him. "Who the fuck is this guy?"

Colonel Ross just shushed her. "Concentrate my dear, you might learn something." He was still videoing, using his phone. When Alfie reached the far end, Sherlock turned him again in that extraordinary circular movement, then brought him back to the centre of the arena. The pair halted, and the horse tossed his head for the first time since Sherlock had mounted. Alfie's ears went back, and there seemed to be something of a disagreement going on, but Sherlock persevered. The bay began to step backwards, calming as he did. Then Sherlock seemed to pull the big bay gently back into what looked to be half way between sitting and rearing, his forelegs coming off the ground and tucking up. "What is that?" John said incredulously.

Colonel Ross was grinning. "A levade. One of the airs above the ground. Not regulation Grand Prix dressage, mind you, but all the riders like to try it. Rosie can do it with both Blaze and Alfie, but Simon's never been able to get him to do it."

The bay came back to all fours, and Sherlock walked him forward back to where they were sitting. Colonel Ross just said, "You're a fool, Holmes, certifiable, if you don't get back into eventing- or at least dressage, based on that performance."

The detective just glared at the man, and then snapped. "Need I remind you that this is simply a means of transport? We have a crime scene to investigate and I'd like to get going, _now._ If you insist on wasting any more time, then I will have to walk there after all."

"Right. John, are you ready to mount up?" John nodded enthusiastically and he and the Colonel started down the steps, as Sherlock took Alfie out of the ménage, and started up the track.


	9. Chapter 9

**Musgrave Blaze **

**Chapter Nine**

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Twenty minutes later, they were at the brow of High Wood. The journey up had involved a fair bit of mud, sliding and treacherous footing, as the three riders left the valley floor and climbed some 400 feet. Now in thick woods, the track forked. Straight ahead was a grassy lane heading down, to the left a wider track, lined with wood-chips. Alfie started to go in that direction, but Sherlock reined him in, bringing him to a stop.

Ross gestured. "Why not? It's not the Wessex run, but you'll find plenty to enjoy. Nothing too challenging, but it will help Alfie get the kinks out. It's longer, but at the speed you'll be going, we will all end up in the same place in less than ten minutes, and that's where the crime scene is. So, off you go."

Sherlock looked down the track. Then he shook his head, in anger. "No, there's no point." He started to turn Alfie's head, but the horse had other ideas, and took a couple of steps to the right. Sherlock did something to try to bring him under control, but the horse shied sideways, bouncing a bit and wrestling against the pull of the reins. Sherlock muttered, "oh, to hell with it!" He relaxed the pressure on the reins, leaned forward in the saddle and the horse took off down the track, like a bat out of hell.

Colonel Ross just laughed. John gave him a startled look. "Um, will he be alright? You know he hasn't ridden in twenty years."

"Don't worry, Doctor Watson. Whatever he said, he really did want to have a go. If you thought his dressage was special, the cross country was his best of the three events. Alfie's fast, too, so we'd best be going." Charlie broke into an amiable trot, and Morag followed him along the switchback trail down through the woods.

When Watson and Ross reached the bottom of the track, it emptied into a huge tilted bowl of a field. Across in the distance down at the bottom, John could see fluttering yellow tape- the crime scene. Along the edge of the field about 200 meters to their left was a series of four jumps. Just as he realised they were there, Alfie broke cover from the woods and tore towards the first of them. Sherlock was bent low over the horse's neck.

Ross had pulled Charlie to a halt, and dragged a small pair of binoculars out of his jacket. He watched closely as Alfie took the first brush hurdle fence. Laughing out loud with pleasure, the retired Army man turned to John. "Thought so, he's taking off at least a meter in front of Aflie's usual. He'll be faster that way. Utterly fearless… and he always makes the horse _so _confident."

John took his eyes off the sight of Sherlock and the horse to glance at the Colonel. "You've seen him do this before, have you?"

Ross nodded. "Yes, once I had the pleasure of seeing him compete." He slipped the string of the binoculars over his head and called out, "Come on, Watson, at the speed he's going, he'll be there before us." He and Charlie took off, with John and Morag in hot pursuit. Any thoughts about Sherlock were blown away by the thrill of galloping full tilt across the field.

By the time John and Colonel Ross got to the taped off crime scene, Sherlock was already off his horse. The detective had tied Alfie's reins to a branch in a huge cypress hedge that formed the bottom of the paddock- but at a distance to ensure that the horse did not trample any of the soft ground inside the marked off area. His helmet had been hung from one of the iron posts that the police used to secure the tape. Now down on his hands and knees at the edge, Sherlock was scrutinising the mess of grass and mud before him.

Both John and Ross dismounted, and the Colonel took Morag's reins as well as Charlie's and kept them off to the side, with Alfie.

John squatted beside the detective and looked at the grass. There were clear signs of a horse having been there. The ground was cut up in places, there were hoof prints visible, too. John heard Sherlock's sigh, and he lifted an eyebrow in a silent question to the detective.

"It's not as bad as I feared. While the rain has washed off a lot of the evidence, enough is left to tell us that Stryker had dismounted, and the horse was spinning about, possible held by the reins for a short time, but then Stryker's boot prints show him moving to the side and rear of the horse. John, check the hedge branches right there" he gestured to the centre "about four to five feet up- should be signs that he tied the horse's head up there like I did with Alfie."

John skirted the edge of the tape area, and the started poking into the dense green wall. Sherlock stood and began to move inside the square, as if marking out what he was deducing had happened that night. "Not just Blaze. Evidence here of another horse- most likely Ned Hunter's and his boots show up, too." He pointed to an area that had no scuffed up grass. "That's where the body was lying. That dent there? Someone kneeling, probably checking for a pulse."

"Ah, HAH." Sherlock suddenly dropped to examine something closely." Here it is- I've got a hoof-print that is minus a shoe. Find anything John?"

"Yeah- at just the same height as you've tied up Alfie- a lot of scraped and broken branches."

Sherlock was suddenly beside him pulling the branches aside to look in where John was. He looked, really looked, eyes moving, darting about as if he was reconstructing something. Then he was gone back into the taped off area. John joined him. "What do you see, Sherlock?"

"Colonel, what is on the other side of this hedge?"

"The Camp. It's a military installation- been there since the war. Well, actually, the actual camp buildings are about two miles up the valley; can't see it from here. The hedge was planted by the Countess's father back in the Second World War when they used the place as an airfield. He didn't want their lights spoiling his view. Before the war, there was an access road up to High Wood, so he ran a point-to-point course up here. The military commandeered the land, closed the road behind their fences, so he planted the hedge to keep this bit unspoiled."

"And on their side, what security do they have in place?"

Ross checked that Alfie and Charlie were still secured to the hedge, then came up to the tape. "There are two separate high fences topped with razor wire, an outer one about four meters from the back of the hedge and an inner fence about four meters further in. There's no access of any kind. The Camp is ah, not exactly forthcoming about what they do there. They keep the hedge trimmed on their side so there is always a gap."

Sherlock pushed his way into the hedge, which was very dense. John could hear him struggling to work his way through the branches, then his baritone voice. "Interesting. John- head to your right and see if you notice a disturbance in the hedge."

Followed by Ross, the doctor walked along, looking up at the wall of living green. Then John reached in and pulled a series of branches which had grown together- hiding from view the fact that there was a substantial gap between two trunks.

"Sherlock- I've got a horse-sized gap here!"

He suddenly spotted Sherlock pulling branches aside from his side of the hedge. The smirk was visible. "So, the horse was taken through here. Colonel Ross, do you think you could bring Charlie through?"

The Colonel looked through the hedge at Sherlock and hesitated. "It's a bit thick- he's likely to refuse."

Sherlock gave him one of those fake smiles that John had come to recognise, but few other people understood as anything but genuine. "If you would be so kind as to try."

The Colonel shrugged his shoulders and fetched the horse, bringing it back to where John was standing. Sherlock gestured to John to push the branches back further, while he did the same from his side. It would be a tight squeeze, but in theory it would work. The Colonel led the horse towards the gap, but then was brought up short when Charlie simply stopped, tossing his head. Ross chirruped to him and pulled on the reins, but the horse dug in and then started to pull away.

"Does Charlie kick, Ross?"

"No, not normally; he's the best tempered of the three Highwood stallions but then I've never tried to pull him through a hedge."

Sherlock pushed through so that he was in the centre of the gap.

"Give me the reins. John, take your jacket and give one end of it to Ross. Use it like a strap at the starting gate, across his rump."

They followed his instructions. At first, Charlie baulked, but the pressure of the cloth on his rump seemed to calm him a bit and he took a few steps forward, then gathered confidence and came into the hedge. The horse flinched as small branches touched his side, but Sherlock kept the momentum going and then the horse suddenly squirted through, leaving John and the Colonel behind.

By the time the two of them followed, Sherlock was securing Charlie's reins to the hedge, and then he strode off to the right, scanning the ground as he went along. "Don't touch the fence," he warned.

John looked at the three meter high chain link fence. It didn't have any warning signs, but he'd been around enough military enclosures in his time to spot an electrified fence. He said to Ross, "Keep Charlie away from that fence, Colonel. I have no idea how strong a charge it has, but he's certain to bolt if he brushes up against it."

The doctor then went after Sherlock, who was already a good distance away and moving quickly. Then he stopped, eying a particular section of fence. By the time the doctor got to him, the consulting detective was grinning broadly.

"Do you see what I see, John?"

Watson did what he always did when Sherlock asked him that question. He tried. But, for the life of him, he couldn't see anything different about this part of the fence from any of the others he had passed. Each section was three meters high and about five in width, between two strong metal poles, concreted into the ground. He shook his head.

"Look _through_ the fence. What do you see?"

Now John spotted what had caught Sherlock's eye- the grass on the other side of the fence was disturbed, a few pieces of the turf were cut up, in a tell-tale arc by a horse's hooves.

"But… how did he get through an electric fence?" The army doctor's tone was incredulous.

In the meantime, Sherlock just dove into the hedge, rummaging about. Then john heard another triumphant "_Aha!"_ The taller man pushed back out of the green branches, brushing conifer bits from his hair, brandishing two long poles, each with a fork at one end.

"Right, John. Take one of these and position it like this." He took his own and put it onto a link of the fence about a foot from the ground and about three feet in from the metal post. John mirrored his action.

"Now, when I say 'go', push hard against the fence."

John looked sceptical, but waited for the call. When it came, the two men used the poles to push at the bottom of the fence, which resisted for a moment, then began to move away from them. The links which should have secured the sides to the metal post had been cut.

Colonel Ross was holding Charlie but that didn't stop him from watching what was going on.

As they continued to push with the wooden poles, the fence bent away from them until it was clear of the posts up to a height of about seven of the nine feet of fence. The cut links stopped at that point, so they pushed forward, bending the fence up and then Sherlock planted his post firmly into the ground, holding up the fence above his head. John did the same.

"A horse-sized entrance. So long as the top carries the electric current onto the next section, the military won't realise that the fence has been breached. Look." He pointed down at a boot print. "These are smaller than either Stryker's or Ned's boots. Someone _else_ took the horse through here. I expect that somewhere on the far side of the camp perimeter, there will be another version of this- in a place convenient to a road, where a horsebox could be waiting. Highwood Blaze is alive and someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make off with him."

Colonel Ross was just shaking his head in amazement. He called out to them, "Who would do such a thing?"

Sherlock smiled. "That is _the _question, isn't it? But the answers don't lie here. We need to get back to Musgrave Hall."


	10. Chapter 10

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Ten:**

* * *

The three men managed to bring the fence back down to its original position again, and then cajoled Charlie through the hedge again. The second time was easier, as the horse seemed less bothered by the experience.

Once through, Ross turned to Sherlock and asked the obvious question. "So, who would steal the horse? And would that be motive for killing Stryker?"

Sherlock just shook his head. "Don't go down that route, Colonel. Not yet. The evidence does not support such a hypothesis."

The retired army man frowned. "What do you mean? You've just shown how the horse was taken- that's something the police weren't able to prove."

"You impute sinister motives, where there may be none." With that enigmatic comment, Sherlock untied his horse and mounted. "Colonel, you are right about one thing- this horse needs more of a work-out, and I intend to give him one."

Ross shouted after him. "Holmes- it's going to rain!"

Sherlock's reply drifted back over the field, "We're waterproof!"

John rolled his eyes at his departure. What was it Mycroft said? "He does so love to be dramatic." That said, dark clouds were gathering, threatening the forecast afternoon showers. So Ross gave him a leg up onto Morag and then got back into the saddle on Charlie.

By the time John and Colonel Ross made it back to the stable yard, it had started to spit big fat drops. Alfie was being cooled down by Sophie, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John dismounted Morag as the Colonel shook his foot free of the stirrup and came down as well. Ross handed both of their sets of reins to Phoebe, who'd appeared at the sound of more hooves on the concrete yard. "Give them a bit of a walk out- but we've not been pushing them the way Holmes did Alfie." He then asked where Sherlock had gone, and Sophie just shrugged. "He went off on foot up the Lime Avenue."

That puzzled John, but he let it go. He was beginning to feel the effects of being in a saddle for an extended period of time. His shoulder was a little sore from the exercise and his thighs and knees were complaining, too.

The Colonel was in an ebullient mood. "Are you ravenous? I am- a good ride always stirs up my appetite. Let's head back to the Hall and see what I can get the cook to rustle up for luncheon. Do you want to change here, or just collect your clothes?"

"If there's a chance for a quick shower first, then I'll change here." The Colonel nodded.

When a refreshed John came back down the corridor to the riders' lounge, he found the Colonel standing at the photo wall. "You asked me earlier whether I'd seen Holmes compete before. Here's the evidence." He tapped one of the eight by ten frames, then took it off the wall and handed it to John. "This was taken in 1994, here at Musgrave, he'd just won the Southern Region's Under 18 British Eventing Championship"

The photo was old and a little discoloured from age. John saw a tall slender teenager in a dark dressage jacket over white jodhpurs, holding a cup. Under the riding helmet, John could see a few of the trademark dark curls, but it wasn't a close-up so it was hard to really see much of the boy's face, in part because he wasn't looking at the camera but rather at his horse. And John instantly saw why.

The horse was _gorgeous_. Not tall, but all muscle. Pure black, with a tail that was so long it touched the ground. The carefully braided mane just accentuated the extraordinary arch of the horse's magnificent neck. His ears were pointed back, as if listening to Sherlock.

The Colonel saw John's look, and gave a chuckle. "Yes, that's a Friesian stallion, seven years old. They are wonderful horses. Great temperament, amazingly strong jumpers, even though they're not as big as a warmblood like Highwood stock. When it isn't braided for the show ring, that mane is almost as long as the tail. No thoroughbred blood in the mix, so not very fast, but with the right rider who knew how to unleash their competitive streak, well, this one took some beating."

The Colonel was smiling at the memory. "The first of the three days caught everyone by surprise- who was this kid on a young horse that just loved the dressage ring? When he came out ahead on points, all the other riders thought he'd disappear on the cross country, not able to keep up. Most of the other horses took the Wessex Run at breakneck speed, but Holmes had walked the course the day before and plotted every angle, every shortcut. The faster you go, the less room for manoeuver you have with a horse. But Holmes knew his horse had the muscle to get over anything on the course without excessive speed, so he took the most impossible angles, shaving off seconds. They ended the second day still ahead of the pack. Then the pundits said he'd never get him through a clear round in the show ring over the jumps- the taller horses would just thrash the pair. Didn't happen that way. Holmes beat twenty riders all older than him, with horses more experienced than Pirate."

"_Pirate_? That was the name of his horse?" John laughed out loud.

Ross nodded. "Oh, of course there was a pedigree name, some Dutch thing. It's just like every one of these horses. Believe me, Highwood Blaze is one of the simpler ones. Most of the best eventing horses are bred overseas, and have foreign names that take five minutes to say. But, riders give them their own stable names and that's what everyone in the know calls them. This was Pirate- and he looked the part, didn't he just?*"

He looked fondly at the photo. "The pair was destined for great things- everybody who saw them that day was sure that we'd seen a future member of Britain's Olympic Equestrian team. He was heavily tipped to win the National Under 18 event at Gatcombe Park that September." The Colonel's expression then saddened. "But it never happened."

"Do you know why?" John remembered Mycroft's bet- if he could find out why Sherlock had stopped riding. But the bet wasn't important any more. Once he'd seen for himself how Sherlock rode, how he took pleasure in it, the doctor needed to know for himself why his friend had stopped. It seemed so …_wrong_ somehow.

"Don't know for certain. I bumped into the trainer the next summer. Former trainer, by that time- Dirk Guilliams said that the horse had died. And no one saw Holmes ride in a competition after that; I think there was an injury or something that put him out of action for a while, but it might have been the demands of his schooling at Harrow- to be honest I can't remember. I was packed off to an overseas posting. It was a long time ago."

Thinking about Mycroft reminded John. "Could you e mail me a clip from that video you took? I'd like to send it to Mycroft Holmes."

John thought about what it would have been like to have owned a horse like that, and then lost it. He couldn't imagine the pain. _Sentiment_- he could hear the baritone sniff of derision. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't have felt the loss in the same way, or maybe, just maybe, such a loss could drive a youth to never want to care so much again. He wondered if Sherlock would ever talk to him about it, so he'd know which it was.

* * *

**Author's Note:** * If you want an idea of what Pirate looked like, check out YouTube at Friesian Stallion "Leave You Breathless". And to see the sort of dressage moves, check out YouTube at Black Horse Show TIETSE 428. Be patient, watch the whole thing. The only bit missing is the Levade. Now just imagine Sherlock on board. WOW


	11. Chapter 11

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Eleven: **

* * *

Sherlock was gone for hours. John ate lunch with the Colonel and listened to the man's description of the Wessex Cup competition. Without Highwood Blaze, he thought it almost certain that Capelton's Desborough would win. "Oh, Silas Brown will crow about it for years. The enmity between his family and the Musgraves goes back a long time- must be four generations." He shook his head. "If I could talk Holmes into riding Alfie we might stand a chance."

John shook his head. "I don't think that's likely, do you?"

The Colonel agreed, sadly. "I was hoping to put Rosie Baxter on Alfie if I could talk her into coming back. But when I spoke to her two days ago, she was so distraught by Stryker's death- I just don't see it happening. I think she'll stay away in Kent with her sister. Sophie was right- they were close. And without Blaze, well- why _would_ she come back? If it weren't for Holmes' discovery this morning, well- I'd have nothing good to tell the Countess when she rings tonight. As it is, all I can tell her is that it looks like the horse has been kidnapped. But, Captain Watson- if that is so, why haven't we been sent a ransom note? Isn't that what people do when they kidnap someone? Or do you think he has been stolen- maybe for his value as a stud?"

John could only shrug in reply. "Maybe Sherlock is out there now trying to find out what happened."

After lunch, the Colonel excused himself- he had work to do with the upper farm, making it ready for the competitors arriving next week. "Even if we can't compete, the show must go on. God only knows what we can award, if the cup isn't found. I hope Holmes is as good a detective as he is a rider, or this family is never going to keep its reputation after next week."

John checked his laptop- couldn't get any wifi signal, so he went off to see if he could find the Estate Office. A footman showed him where to hook up- and John found in the inbox the video clip he asked for from Ross, so he sent it onto Mycroft, along with the specifications of the new lap top he wanted.

For the rest of the afternoon, John watched the rain falling from the library windows, and wondered what Sherlock was doing. He wanted to talk to him, to find out more about…everything. The riding, in particular. Clearly, at one time horses had been very important to Sherlock. The look on his friend's face as he rode Alfie in the arena, that look of utter concentration, of being totally absorbed in the sensation of the moment- that look said it was possible for it to be that way again for him. But that moment was shattered by his almost angry comment to Ross- a reminder that the horse was simply a form of transport. Thereafter, Sherlock's mood had been strangely volatile, one moment focused on the case, the next taking Alfie tearing off over a steeplechase course.

His Sherlock radar was definitely NOT working out here. Usually, at Baker Street, he'd be able to judge his flatmate's moods pretty well. In the familiar surroundings, anything out of the ordinary could be easily spotted, and he'd learned the tiny tells that Sherlock would give out if he was stressed or disturbed. Beyond the usual swings and roundabouts of case-driven highs, and boredom-driven lows, that is. Out here, in unfamiliar territory, he was picking up conflicting signals. John was feeling guilty that his own insistence in taking the case might have stirred up things that Sherlock would have preferred to have buried. Now that the Colonel had told him about Sherlock's teenage exploits as an event competitor, he was beginning to understand why. Unlike John's memories of how riding kept him sane in the midst of a combat zone, Sherlock's memories might not be so pleasant if they ended in his horse's death.

After Brunton brought him tea, John decided to go back to his room. Reginald Musgrave caught him on the stairs up from the Library. "Doctor Watson- just the man! Where's Holmes? I understand from Ross that you've found how Blaze was taken." When John explained that Sherlock had not yet returned, Musgrave told him to meet in the drawing room for the pre-dinner drinks again.

Fortunately for John, his host did not look too discomforted by Sherlock's continued absence throughout the now customary gin and tonic, nor when dinner was served. As the doctor described their crime scene findings, he realised that Reginald might be worried about the loss of the horse and the cup, but nothing was going to lessen his appetite for fine food and drink. To try to distract the man, John allowed himself to be drawn on his time spent in Afghanistan and in particular, his refuge in riding. Musgrave was sympathetic.

"Oh, I wasn't always this _indolent_, doctor. In my youth I rode with enthusiasm. Of course, the Countess was a bit scathing- never met her standards of horsemanship, but then it was all too much like hard work. And over the years, I've just had too many other things to do. Once I started thinking of horses as a commercial business, I found it hard to think of the pleasures involved- just too much expense for the financial return. And eventing? Well, it really is the preserve of the idle rich aristocracy these days, either as riders – witness the minor royals down the road at Gatcombe and Badminton- or as sponsors. When the Countess is gone, I think we will be forced to close down the equestrian facilities. I just hope that Colonel Ross has retired by then. It would be a shame to have to turn him out to grass."

That sparked off a discussion between the two men about why riding was so expensive, which lasted through the first course. Once again, the food was delicious. The only thing that marred it was the absence of a certain consulting detective. John decided he was through apologising for his friend's rudeness, and said as much to his host.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, never fear! I've always known Sherlock to be an odd sort. Even as a boy he was determined to be rude and difficult. My mother was most annoyed with him at times. Said his mother deserved better. Of course, she thought more of his elder brother. Now _his_ table manners are impeccable, according to her, and he likes a good meal as much as we do."

Sherlock showed up eventually. He didn't apologise, just strode into the dining room, pulled out a chair and sat down, looking at Reginald and John, as if daring them to criticise his lateness. When John finished chewing the last mouthful of his main course, he just glared at the detective.

Musgrave decided to take Holmes at face value. "I hope it was worth it, whatever kept you, because you missed a great first course- sea bass fillets with a fine Chablis to wash it down." He gestured at the few smears of red sauce on his plate, "not to mention a Barnsley Chop of fine Cotswold lamb in a red currant jus, with a 1988 claret."

"I wasn't hungry. Except for information- which I am pleased to say, I have been able to obtain even though it took me some time to do so."

Reginald savoured his last few morsels. "Well, I have information for you, too; Pierson's come through with a detailed report on Fitzroy Simpson. He says that although the print from the Silver Room didn't match Simpson, he still thinks the chap's the prime suspect." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a USB which he casually tossed across the table to Sherlock, who caught it with his left hand. Sherlock shook his head. "If that's his story, Musgrave, while you've been enjoying your sea bass, Pierson is busy serving up a plateful of red herring."

Musgrave grimaced at the play on words. "By the way, Holmes, it would have been nice to have heard it from _you_, rather than Colonel Ross and Captain Watson here, about the evidence that Blaze was horse-napped. I suppose now all we have to do is wait for a ransom demand and hope that will lead us to Simpson and the people who murdered Stryker."

Sherlock shook his head, "unlikely."

Before John could ask him to explain why he was dismissing the idea, Brunton arrived to clear the main course plates. The butler hesitated when he saw Sherlock. "Will Mr Holmes be having supper, sir?" he asked Reginald. Before his host could even react, Sherlock replied "No, thank you, nothing for me." That earned him a raised eyebrow from the butler, but no other comment.

"Shall I serve biscuits and cheese with the port, sir?"

Sherlock drew in an audible breath of impatience. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get on with things. I need to talk to you in the Library." He got up and strode out of the room, leaving behind three men who exchanged looks. John just rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm sorry. He seems to be particularly awkward at the moment."

Reginald gave a rueful smile. "I can forgive anything, so long as he can get to the bottom of this mystery and solve it. There is too much riding on the Wessex Cup for me to get precious about manners." He stood up and tossed his napkin on the table. "Shall we retire to the library? I will get Bruton to bring in the port. No reason to let Holmes' abstemiousness interfere with our pleasure, is there?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

Sherlock was pacing in the Library by the time Reginald and John joined him. His laptop was open and the USB already loaded. He was on his phone as the two men entered the book-lined room, with Brunton carrying the port and two glasses.

"Send that equipment over first thing in the morning. And check the fingerprint against the body. His prints won't be in the system, but I am certain you will get a match. And release Fitzroy, you have no evidence to hold him." He didn't bother to say goodbye, just thumbed the button to end the call and thrust the phone back in his pocket.

John looked puzzled. The only dead body he knew about was Stryker's. What print was Sherlock referring to- could it be the one that Pierson had found in the Silver Room? He thought that it might be likely that the horse-trainer would have handled the trophy at some point. If so, it was disappointing. They needed more clues, not fewer, as to the identity of the horse thief and murderer.

"Was that Pierson?" Reginald sounded surprised. When Sherlock nodded, the Musgrave heir gave a chuckle. "Well, you've certainly lit a fire under him. Still working at this hour? He's the sort who would normally be home now and tucking into his own dinner. We're not like you Londoners; our police don't seem to work twenty four seven out in the countryside. Maybe our criminals like to sleep more than yours."

John just watched his friend. The pacing had not stopped when the telephone call ended. Brunton handed the doctor a glass of port, then did the same for Reginald. He then asked politely, "Are you sure, Mister Holmes, that I can't tempt you with a glass? Or perhaps a brandy?"

"No." There was no "thank you" included. It was brusque, but Sherlock was oblivious. As the butler started for the door, the consulting detective spoke again. "Brunton, before you go- did Stryker come to the house often? Would he come in here, the Library, for any reason on his own?"

The Butler hesitated. "Not normally, sir. The trainer had his own cottage near the Upper Farm. He'd occasionally meet the Countess, of course, but that would take place in the drawing room or the morning room, not here in the Library. It wouldn't be proper for him to be in here, alone."

Something in the man's tone of voice captured the detective's interest. Sherlock crossed the room to stand close to the butler, looking at the servant's face intently. "Not normally…but you did see him in here, didn't you?"

The tall man stiffened slightly. "I … yes, just once. Last week, in fact. I came in to refresh the flower arrangement, and found him in here."

"Show me where." Sherlock's tone was intense.

Brunton gestured to the secretaire, up against the wall between the two windows overlooking the lawn. "He was standing over there. Unusually, the writing desk was open. I got the impression that he had been looking through the drawers."

Reginald looked amazed. "What the hell? That's impertinent! The writing desk is the Countess's- she does her private correspondence there! He'd have no reason to be nosing about in it."

Brunton nodded. "As I said to him at the time, sir."

Reginald's eyes narrowed. "Then why didn't you say something to me, or to the Countess? I am sure she would have mentioned it to me, if she had known."

The butler looked a little sheepish. "I'm sorry, sir. Stryker said that he was trying to find the price that the Nordstrom's had paid for Blaze. He begged me not to say anything. He was trying to find an English sponsor who could match the price, in the hope of keeping the horse in the country, because Rosie Baxter was so distraught at losing the horse."

"I told him that he was to never come into the house again unless accompanied. It just wasn't on. But, I didn't want him to lose his position over it. I knew that the Countess was counting on him to do the best for the family, to win the Wessex Cup. So, I said nothing. When he was murdered, well, it just seemed irrelevant."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together and turned away from the butler, with a triumphant smile on his face. "Irrelevant? It is the most _relevant_ piece of information I've had all day!"

"What are you on about, Sherlock? What's going on? Where've you been all afternoon?" John's impatience spilled over. The consulting detective's secretive attitude, the fact that he was keeping things from John, it all added up to the fact that he was deeply annoyed. It was as if Sherlock was punishing him somehow for making him take the case.

His pointed questions earned him a glare from Sherlock. "I've been putting the pieces together. I spent the afternoon at Stryker's cottage. You are right, Brunton; he was trying to find a way to keep the horse in the country. But he wasn't looking for the price when he snooped in here." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a yellowed scroll. "I think he was after this."

Reginald was on his feet, and crossing the Turkish carpet, his hand outstretched. "Where did you get that?!"

Sherlock turned away from him, keeping the scroll just out of reach, with his characteristic smirk. "At the cottage, where no doubt he took it after liberating it from the Countess's desk. Reginald, you'd best explain to John- he's looking _so_ confused."

"The Musgrave Ritual. It's a bit of nonsense from the seventeenth century- a sort of poem."

Sherlock untied the red silk ribbon and unrolled the scroll. He began to read out loud a series of questions and odd answers.

"Whose was it?…..His who is gone"

"Who shall have it?…..He who will come."

"What was the month?…..The sixth from the first."

"Where was the sun?...Over the oak"

"Where was the shadow?...Under the elm."

"How was it stepped?...North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under."

"What shall we give for it?…All that is ours."

"Why should we give it?...For the sake of the trust."

Reginald was just shaking his head. "It's all a load of codswallop. Some idiot ancestor came up with the riddle, probably as the 17th century equivalent of a prank and it's been driving generations ever since mad with greed. There is NO buried treasure!" He nearly shouted this in exasperation.

John was momentarily bemused. A horse called 'pirate' and now buried treasure? Was this for real?

Sherlock smirked. "What matters, Musgrave, is what people _believe_. Clearly, Stryker thought that his only hope of buying the horse and keeping it in the country for Rosie Baxter to ride was to find this treasure. So, it does matter. It may be the most significant clue we have as to how and why he died, and to what happened to the horse."

Reginald just groaned with frustration. "Not him, too?! There is _no such thing _as the 'Musgrave Treasure'. Every square inch of the grounds has been searched by every idiot in the vicinity for the past three hundred plus years, and not a penny has ever been found. When I was a child I used to come out in the mornings to find that holes had been dug in the night by some fool sneaking in trying to make sense of those stupid instructions. Worse than having moles and molehills, I can tell you. Thank God for technology. Now every year, we get requests from metal detector enthusiasts, and I get to write to them to say that it's all been searched scientifically already and that it is a simply a historical joke." Musgrave looked most put out.

Sherlock was watching the man's tirade with some interest. His next words surprised John because they were uttered in a placatory tone. "Whatever you think, what matters is that Stryker believed it and was trying to find the treasure. It's an important clue. And what happened afterward, how he died, is bound up in that pursuit –however misguided you might think it was."

Reginald just glared, and then shook his head. "I don't believe it."

Sherlock was the only one in the room who spotted the fact that during their exchange the butler was trying to leave the room without being noticed.

"Brunton- just wait a moment." The dark suited servant reluctantly turned back toward the men in the room. Sherlock continued, "Tell me- did Stryker know where the key to the Silver Room is kept?"

The butler straightened his posture. "It is likely, sir, as most employees know that I carry the only other key apart from the Countess's own key. And he has been with me on occasions when I have moved various trophies relating to the horses, so, yes, it is likely that he knew I keep the keys on my person."

Sherlock pinned the man with one his trade-mark stares. "Even when you are asleep?"

The butler frowned. "No, of course not. I put all of the keys I need for my work on the night table beside my bed, along with my watch."

"So, someone coud use the key without you being awakened and replace it before you woke up."

Brunton looked scandalised. "It's possible, but highly improbable; I can't be expected to _not_ sleep. But I can assure you I am a _light_ sleeper. I'd know if someone was in my room."

Sherlock was pacing again. "That explains the presence of a bottle of sleeping tablets I found at Stryker's cottage. Prescribed a month ago, but only two missing. He could have slipped you something and let you sleep through the night unknowingly. And while you were asleep, he would have been able to spend the night removing the Wessex Cup. At any point in the last week _before_ you discovered the cup was missing, did you have a drink with him?"

"No, sir. I was not in the habit of socialising with the man."

Sherlock resumed pacing. Then he stopped and looked at the butler. "Do you keep water beside your bed at night? I notice there is some in my bedroom."

The butler frowned. "Yes, of course. The pipes in the Hall are rather old, and lime-encrusted. The Countess detests the taste of water from the taps. So we always ensure everyone has a proper supply of fresh drinking water. The maids draw it each morning for her and any house guests as well as for me, so I don't have to bother returning to the kitchen at night."

The smile broadened on the face of the consulting detective. "So, there was opportunity to spike your bedside water with a sedative without you having any idea. The Silver Room key could have been used without your knowledge."

John was struggling to follow the line of Sherlock's thinking- but it was Reginald who asked the obvious question. "All these questions about Stryker- you aren't seriously suggesting _he_ was behind the theft. Why would Stryker steal the very same cup he wanted to win? Or are you suggesting that there is a connection between that and his murder?"

Because he was more used to following Sherlock's deductive leaps, the doctor threw in his own question. "Could he have been blackmailed into taking the cup and then the blackmailer just killed him for it?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in dismissal. "Don't try. It isn't worth the effort. Both of you are so far from the mark that it isn't even worth explaining at this stage."

That annoyed John- in fact, it pushed him right over the edge. He was on his feet before he even thought about it, striding over to Sherlock and stopping only when he was seriously intruding on the man's personal space. The taller man looked down at him as if slightly bemused by the doctor's reaction. That made John even more angry.

"Just _stop_ this, Sherlock. I don't know what the _hell_ is bothering you. But there is a limit and you've just exceeded it. Either you explain what's going on, or just stop insulting people. There is no excuse. If we aren't following your logic, then maybe, just maybe, that's _your_ fault for not being clear enough."

Sherlock's gaze hardened and his mouth set in a determined line. The two men's eyes locked, neither wanting to back down. Then Sherlock said quietly, as if between gritted teeth. "Not yet. The pieces are becoming clearer, but there is more work to be done. Unlike _some_ people, I will not be rushed into forming half-baked, unsubstantiated theories. If I am more concerned with the truth than with…other…distractions here, well, at least _one_ of us is focusing on the right thing." As John thought through the meaning of those words, Sherlock turned and left the room.

The doctor sighed.

Reginald was also on his feet now, looking at the door that Sherlock had just fled through. "I told the Countess that Holmes was high maintenance. She said I was just to put up with it, so long as we get the horse and the cup back. Let's hope she's right, doctor."

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**Author's Note: **_ if you like the scenes in this story with Sherlock in the saddle, you must go read SailOnSilverGirl's two chapter fic called Disagreements. She is an inspired and inspiring writer, and has captured the mental connection between Sherlock as a rider and Highwood Alpha. Her idea- and it's brilliant!_

_Enjoy it while you can, because Musgrave Blaze is about to take a turn to the dark side. Chapters 13-16 are DARK and the reason why this fic is listed as "Mystery/Angst". There are REASONS why Sherlock did not want to ride again!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Musgrave Blaze **

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**Author's Warning: **_**Chapters thirteen through seventeen are heavy duty angst. Don't like, don't read!**_

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**Chapter Thirteen**

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He couldn't move, but knew he had to. If he didn't, then it was only a matter of time before he would stop moving forever. The smoke was getting thicker, no longer confined to the area of the ceiling where it had started. The whirling sensations- scents and sounds too loud, too strong, threatened to overwhelm him again, and he smacked his cheek back onto the stone floor to try to ground himself. The world was ablaze and he was trapped. The stone of the tack room floor beneath him was rough, purposefully textured to help boots get a grip. His bare skin all down his chest and groin felt every piece of gravel, every grain of hard oat spilled. Odd that he could still feel that, despite the pain in his backside, hands and feet. He was spread eagled, three limbs caught in a leather strap, each strap belted to something solid, immoveable. On his right, it was the two legs of the long tack table, bolted to the wall- his wrist strapped to one leg, his ankle to the other. On his left ankle, the leather had been nailed to the barrel used to store the feed grain- over 200 lbs in weight, and unmoveable, no matter how he wriggled, kicked, pulled or tried to twist to get some give. His left forearm above the wrist was caught in a lunge line, with a knot so tight that his hand was starting to lose feeling. The more he struggled, the tighter it got. The other end of the line was tied around a cast iron water pipe three feet away.

His mind went spinning off at the thought of water. His throat was so parched and raw. He'd given up shouting. No one to hear, and the horse was enough to wake the dead; if Pirate's screaming had not brought help, then no one was coming. He tried to shut the sound out. He had to concentrate on the fact the strap on his right wrist was beginning to shift, due to the amount of blood. Slippery, he needed to make it more slippery, so he kept flexing and pulling his hand, sawing the edge of the leather across the open wound. He remembered the Gamekeeper's story -the fox that had gnawed off its own foot to escape the snare. He only wished he could reach the nylon line with his teeth, or even his wrist.

He had lost track of time, but counted it by the sound of the fire and how much he was now coughing because of the smoke. The whole roof was alight, he could hear beams cracking, and the horse's screams were now punctuated by smashing hoofs. _That's it- break free. You're strong enough, just escape. Smash the stall door down. Don't let him hurt you._

Then he gave another almighty yank of his right arm and watched the skin on the bloodied hand rip as he pulled it though the leather strap. Spasms of coughing took him- the smoke was now reaching the floor. He didn't have much longer. The fire drills he's learned at school taught him the stages, and what to do in each. _They always assume you can move._ He commanded his bloodied hand to reach for anything that could be used. He couldn't reach his feet. And as his right hand scrabbled around the lunge line's bloodied knot on his left arm, he realised wouldn't be able to free himself that way. There was simply no give between the left arm and right ankle. At full stretch, he couldn't release the tension enough to be able to ease the knot, even with his other hand free. His right hand and fingers were slick with blood and hardly able to function, and the left forearm under the rope was an open wound now. He wondered if he might bleed to death before he was overcome by the smoke.

There was an almighty crash from the stall next door- the sound of wood splintering mingled with Pirate's screams. In desperation, Sherlock kept reaching, reaching for anything that might help. Under the tack table his fingers snagged a tin and he dragged it out. A tin of saddle soap, must have fallen under there and been forgotten. He looked at his left wrist. At the bones that protruded at the bottom of his arm– that bump on the left of his wrist that was holding the rope above his wrist, if that and the knuckles of his thumb and last finger could be flattened, then he had a chance of pulling his hand through. He started work, smashing downwards with all his remaining strength. Then he was falling…

oOo

John woke with a start. An intake of breath, more a gasp, actually. He was suddenly wide awake and sitting up with no idea why. The second he opened his eyes, he remembered that he wasn't home at Baker Street. This room was pitch black, unlike the flat, where the street lights always gave a tiny gleam of light through the gap in the curtains. For a moment, he struggled to remember where he was, before his memory flared into life. _Musgrave Hall._ But what had woken him up? Not a dream, nor a nightmare. He knew those feelings all too well. This was different. His senses were tingling- something in the here and now had brought him out of a deep sleep. He strained to see, to hear.

A muffled voice- no, wordless…more a cry of pain- in a very recognisable baritone. _Sherlock_. John was suddenly fumbling beside his bed for the lamp switch, and knocked over a glass of water. As a doctor, he was used to the sound of patients in pain. This was…serious. His fingers found the awkward switch and the bedroom flooded with light, as he kicked off the sheets and scrambled out of bed. He started for the door into the hallway, then stopped, remembering the shared bathroom between the two bedrooms. Bolting through the darkened room, his feet registered the cold tiles, then he found the door handle into Sherlock's bed room.

"Sherlock?" The room was almost dark as his had been. Only the glow of his own bedside table lamp in the other room reached feebly through the bathroom into the area by the door. For a moment, John was disoriented. He could hear ragged breathing, to his right somewhere. He stopped his instinct to rush forward- in the dark he could crash into things or even into Sherlock if he was out of bed, cause even more damage than he was already hearing in his friend's gasps. He moved sideways to his left until he found a wall and then ran his fingers along it until he came to the door frame. On the other side, he found the light switch. An overhead light came on, greeted by a hiss of pain. John instantly saw that the bed was empty. He came around it quickly to see his friend huddled on the floor, gasping.

"Sherlock!" John was beside him in an instant, one hand dropping on his friend's bare back, the other reaching for a pulse point on his neck. As soon as he was touched, though, Sherlock cried out again and tried to move away. His head was down, pulled into his chest, his legs tucked up beneath him, drawn into as tight a ball on the floor as his six foot frame would allow. John removed his hand as if scalded, and got a hold of his own fears. In a quieter voice, "What happened?"

"J…John?" It was squeezed out between gasps.

"Where does it hurt? Let me see. Let me help you."

"Turn off the light. Hurts."

He daren't touch Sherlock. Whatever happened was causing him enough pain that he was probably experiencing allodynia- every sensation experienced as pain. It was one of the more distressing consequences of the sensory processing disorder he knew Sherlock had. "Please, Sherlock. I need to see. Keep your eyes shut." He was almost whispering the plea. "Can you sit up? Come on, try."

Sherlock unfolded himself slowly, sitting up just enough to let John see the arm that he'd been guarding between his chest and the floor. For a split second, John could only register the fact that his left hand was attached at a very peculiar angle, bent both backwards and to the left. Then the training kicked in.

"Sherlock, you've broken your wrist. It looks pretty nasty. We've going to have to get that seen to at a hospital." This news provoked a groan. "Did you bang your head when you fell? Is there anything else that hurts? Talk to me, Sherlock."

Black curls shook a negative. "Just fell out of bed. Just the wrist."

"I need to look at it more closely; I need to examine it to see if it's a compound fracture, if there's bleeding. That means I have to touch you. Can you deal with that?"

Sherlock's head dropped back so his chin rested on his chest. His eyes were screwed up tightly shut. "Must you?" It came out in a whisper.

"Yes, 'fraid so. Then I'll get help and call an ambulance here."

"John, I'm going to be sick. Need to get to the bathroom."

"Nope, you're not moving until I can visualise the fracture." John looked around the room, and spotted the wastepaper basket. He brought it to Sherlock's side and pushed it into his friend's right hand. Sherlock grabbed it, leaned forward and retched. Not much came up, mostly bile. _That's one advantage of having missed lunch and dinner._ John waited until Sherlock caught his breath. He scrutinised the fingers of Sherlock's hand above the left wrist. Still pink- well, as much as he ever was, given his pale skin. But no sign of greying, so blood supply seemed OK.

"I have to touch your arm, Sherlock."

"No, you don't." Then a deep breath. "It's not bleeding…Not compound…..Probably a distal radius fracture. I think the hand is…okay."

Each phrase came squirted out of Sherlock between his gasping breaths. The doctor registered the fact that the technical terms were used.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I do. If it's simple, then I can do the reduction here, splint it and we can then drive you to the hospital, it'll take half the time, rather than wait for an ambulance."

Sherlock grimaced. "No, it's comminuted. Probably a Barton…dorsal.*" He was panting. "It's going to need operative reduction, internal fixation."

Again, Sherlock's use of the medical terminology surprised him. "You've broken your wrist before?" John was confused. He'd not seen any mention of a broken wrist in the nine inch pile of medical records he'd had to wade through about Sherlock six months ago.*

"Yes. Need…something cold, keep the swelling down; find the strongest pain killer in the Hall, and then let's go. "

John was startled. "Since when did you become the doctor, Sherlock? That will hurt like hell."

"Can't wait for an ambulance, too dangerous. Tendon damage- nerve or artery may be trapped. Stabilisation takes too long. Please, I need to go _now_."

Sherlock _wanted_ to go to hospital. That was a first. And the idea of that scared John. He grabbed the tangled duvet and draped it around bare shoulders. "You'll get cold; why do you _always _insist on sleeping naked? Wait here- I'll go get help and something cold for a compress. Don't move." He turned the light off as he went out of the room, but left the door open.

It took him too long to find Reginald's bedroom- Sherlock was right; Musgrave Hall was a warren of a house, and he had no idea where people or the things he needed were. After a few minutes of calling out and opening doors on their floor, John just ran downstairs to the Estate Office- the footmen were supposed to be sleeping nearby. Once awake, one of them went upstairs to get Reginald. ("He's in the East Wing, sir; you're in the West Wing.") The other showed John to the freezer, where he started burrowing his way through the contents, in pursuit of any bags of frozen peas or other vegetables that could be used as a cold compress.

John met Reginald coming down the stairs as he headed back up. "Blasted bad luck- poor Holmes. Smythe says it's a broken wrist? It will take ages to get an ambulance out here this late. I'd drive you myself but that last brandy did it for me, Watson. I'm too far over the limit to drive safely; already have seven points on my license. Chauffeur's in London with the Countess. I'll get Brunton to take you to Gloucester, it's closer than Cheltenham and Stroud has no casualty service." The man handed over a packet of nurofen plus. "It's all I've got here."

John sighed but said, "We need to hurry."

When he got back into the room, he saw that the bedside lamp had been turned on. Sherlock was leaning on the edge of the bed. He'd managed to get a pair of boxers on one-handed, but the trousers were defeating him.

"I thought I told you not to move." John was by his side with the frozen peas.

Sherlock's face showed the pain he was in- every angular line etched by tight muscle. He was still panting a bit. "Can't wait; got to move."

John gave him two of the tablets and the glass of water from the bedside table. "Let's see if you can keep these down." While Sherlock crunched the two tablets in his teeth, John stripped the pillowcase off and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with two towels, one of which he wrapped around the frozen vegetables.

"This is going to hurt like hell, Sherlock. The cold is bad enough but pressure is needed, too. If you won't let me touch you, then you'll have to do it." The doctor would have preferred to have done it himself, so he could examine the breaks at the same time, but one look at Sherlock's pupils, blown wide by the pain, told him that the man's hypersensitivity was complicating things.

Sherlock took the make-shift compress and looked down at his wrist, which had swelled in the ten minutes. He placed the package on the break, and John wrapped the pillow case around it, while trying to ignore his friend's keening cries of pain. John slipped the second towel under Sherlock's arm and then lifted the two ends up, tying the edges together into a makeshift sling. "Duck your head."

As John's sling started to carry the arm's weight, there was another outburst, this time a word- "_FUCK_"- which told John that this was bad. Sherlock only ever swore when it was really, really bad, and his senses were overwhelmed. John was afraid he might be going into a meltdown.

Sherlock lurched forward off the bed and collapsed on his knees over the waste basket, throwing up again. _There go the tablets._ John sighed. Sherlock was always easier to sedate intravenously. When the retching stopped, Sherlock stood up a bit unsteadily and leaned back onto the side of the bed. "Trousers. I need your help. Can't do it one handed."

John obliged. It was a bit of a struggle, but the weather was too cold out to risk going without. He pulled socks onto his friend's feet, then shoes, tying the laces loosely. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his face screwed up with the pain. John offered some more water. "Rinse your mouth out, then little sips. We might try again with some tablets once you're in the car." He grabbed the shirt and helped his friend get the right sleeve on properly, then buttoned it at the bottom and the top, keeping the sling with Sherlock's arm on the inside. Then he dragged the duvet off the floor and draped it around the man's shoulders. "Wait here. I'll be back in a tick, just got to throw some clothes on myself."

As he was in his room frantically grabbing his trousers from the back of the chair, he tried to keep Sherlock talking. "How did you fall, Sherlock? Were you trying to get out of bed?" There was no answer. With the bathroom between them, it was hard to hear anything. His fingers fumbled at his own shirt buttons.

His bedroom door opened and he saw Sherlock standing there in the hall, unsteady but mobile. He shielded his eyes from the light in the bedroom. "Hurry, John. The swelling is getting worse." He started down the corridor, while John was still trying to get his shoes back on without untying the laces. The doctor caught up with him just as he got to the stairs. The detective was looking down them uncertainly. John came up behind. "Do you need help? You _mustn't_ fall again. So let me give you a hand to steady your balance."

Sherlock just shook his head and went down one step at a time, planting both feet on the same step before trying the next. His right handed grip on the handrail was white-knuckled. John just gave a rueful smile at his friend's obstinance and muttered "Well, we're lucky that the Countess is old enough for them to have installed hand rails."

At the bottom Reginald was waiting in his dressing gown, a worried look on his face. "Holmes- bad luck, old chap. I might have thought it more likely you'd break something falling off a horse than in a bedroom. Hopefully, they'll get you sorted at the hospital."

Sherlock ignored him and just continued out the door. There was no handrail down the seven stone steps,. John hovered anxiously, one step in front, to stop a fall if it happened. Sherlock looked at the open car door and the seat, as if trying to figure out how. It was strange to see him so uncertain. The tall man was normally so fluent, so unselfconscious in his movements that it almost hurt to see him derailed like this. The doctor gestured how to do it; _back up, sit down and then lift your feet in. _The taller man obliged. Even so, John had to put his hand on the top of Sherlock's head to remind him to duck as he went in. _He's losing his sense of where his body ends and the rest of existence is_. John had seen it once before, a precursor to melt-down. He scrambled to the other side of the car and threw himself in. He nodded to Brunton in the front seat of the BMW, who was looking decidedly un-butler like in casual clothes. He slipped the car into gear and moved off.

"Can you manage a seat-belt, Sherlock?"

A grunt was the only reply. John scooted over to him and reached for the belt. "Not the shoulder strap, but you have to have the lap strap. It's too risky." He slipped the shoulder strap behind the detective's back and then fumbled with the lap strap in the dark. His hand brushed the bottom of the sling as he brought the strap around to the catch. The hiss of pain was right in his ear, but he persevered. Loose in the back seat, if they had an accident, it would be more than Sherlock's wrist that got broken. He managed to find the catch in the dark and heard it click home. Then he got his own belt on.

"How long will it take, Brunton?"

"At this hour of the night, there's no traffic, but the roads twist a lot for the first half of the journey- fifteen to twenty minutes, sir." Sherlock just groaned.

"Sherlock, talk to me. I need to hear you, if I can't examine you."

No reply.

"Sherlock, I _mean _it!"

"John, don't be so brown. It's too tedious." This came out in little more than a whisper.

John looked at him perplexed, then remembered confusion over senses was a classic symptom of synaesthesia. Taste, colour and touch getting mixed up in speech. Another sign that the SPD was emerging, due to the continuing pain. He remembered an occasion six months ago when Sherlock had gone into full melt-down, panicked and violent, unreachable. He needed to keep Sherlock talking, keep him grounded, even if it wasn't making a whole lot of sense.

"Sherlock, how is it you can leap across London rooftops but you end up falling out of bed. How'd that happen?"

"Not going there. Back in the box. Bolt the door. Too bright, too red." He'd closed his eyes, and was leaning his head back against the headrest behind him. "Shut up, John. Everything sounds like smoke."

The countryside was dark. John looked over the seat to the dashboard clock- 3.18am. Brunton saw John's movement out of the corner of his eye and said quietly, "We're on the B4070 now. Another three miles and we'll reach Birdlip, then turn onto the Cirencester Road- it's an old Roman road, straight as a die into Gloucester and the Royal Hospital. I made the journey last year when the Countess had a fall. The chauffeur drove, but I came with her to make sure she was OK."

Quiet descended for the next five minutes, then John could see a village ahead of them, lights, and traffic signs. The road veered left and then took a sharp turn right. Although Brunton had slowed the car, Sherlock's internal sense of balance was a mess, and he lurched sideways, ending up with his left elbow in the sling bumping onto the seat. He cried out in pain, and john reached for him, trying to get him upright as the car took an immediate left around an old building. That had the effect of toppling him back up and throwing his right shoulder into the door frame, dragging another cry of pain out of him. He started panting, his eyes opened, and in the light cast by the village's streetlights, John could see the panic in them. His right hand began to pull at the seat belt across his lap.

"Hey, just hang in there, Sherlock. We'll get you there soon. Just close your eyes and try to stay still."

But he couldn't, he just couldn't. Something black was escaping from the room in the basement of his mind palace, the one with the stable door. He had to follow it; if he didn't, the flames would consume him and he would die. His right hand formed a fist and resumed its work. The bones had to be broken if he was to get the lunge line off.

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*** Author's Note: ** a comminuted radius fracture means the radius is splintered, broken in more than two places. A Barton refers to the fact that it is also accompanied by dislocation, and the break intrudes into the joint.


	14. Chapter 14

**Musgrave Blaze**

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**Author's Warning**: **_Chapters thirteen through seventeen are heavy duty angst. Don't like, don't read!_**

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**Chapter Fourteen**

John watched as the street lights of Birdip disappeared behind them. Then suddenly Sherlock went…berserk. He started to flail, his right hand in a fist that he smashed down onto his already injured left wrist. Of all the things that John might have predicted he'd do in a melt-down, this was…not it. For a split second, the doctor watched horrified, stunned into immobility. Sherlock cried out in pain, but it did not stop him from raising his right fist again. At the suddenness of the shout, Brunton was startled and the car swerved, as he looked over the back seat. Then John was out of his own seatbelt and reaching across to his friend. He shouted at the butler, "_DRIVE!"_

The doctor found himself wrestling with a demonic force. Sherlock was unreachable. His eyes were closed, he was in agony, and yet he was the one who was doing it. John could not understand it, but he tried to pin the taller man's right arm back. He felt the car accelerating, as he fought to keep Sherlock from hurting himself.

"Sherlock, stop." It took every ounce of his medical training not to shout this. But he knew that loud noises would only be felt as pain. He was losing the battle to keep Sherlock's right hand trapped, so the doctor pushed his way into Sherlock's lap, to shield the broken wrist with his own back if necessary from that flailing right fist. Sherlock was fighting back, struggling to free his arm with every ounce of strength he had, as if his life depended on it. But he didn't hit John; all he was doing was trying to free his right arm.

The doctor had no idea what to do to stop Sherlock from harming himself. In an Emergency Department, he'd have fast-acting sedatives that could stop this sort of behaviour in seconds. There'd be other staff to help him restrain the patient. The doctor wrestled with the shoulder strap of the seatbelt that was behind Sherlock, trying to pull it forward so it would restrain the right arm's freedom of movement.

The car was now on the old Roman road, so straight that Brunton could push it well above the speed limit. They tore through Witcome and Brockworth, the street lights flashing by and then the car was swallowed up by the darkness again. When lights appeared again, Brunton shouted, "We're in the suburbs now. Only a few more minutes."

The man's voice set Sherlock off with renewed violence, and this time he pushed John right off of him and onto the floor. Once free of the weight, he raised his right fist and brought it down on his hand again, screaming with the pain of it. John managed to get his feet under himself again, half stood and punched Sherlock hard on the jaw. The taller man's head snapped back against the headrest and then fell forward again, limp onto his chest. John put a hand on his friend's chest to stop him from slumping forward; he was unconscious.

The silence was broken only by the sound of John's panting. That's when he realised that the hand on Sherlock's chest was not feeling any movement. _Oh shit; he's stopped breathing._ Fingers found the pulse point on his neck, and John was reassured. Sherlock's heart was going fast, almost too fast.

This he could deal with. He unclicked the seatbelt and pulled Sherlock down so he was lying on the seat. Too tall to fit, but at least his torso was flat. He began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the lingering bitterness of Sherlock's earlier vomit made him gag for a moment, but he got it under control and found a rhythm. In between breaths, he shouted at Brunton, "Hurry- I won't be able to keep this up for long."

When they came off the Great Western Road into the hospital area, Brunton took the BMW straight down the ambulance pathway to the Emergency Department. He was out of the car as soon as he had taken the car out of gear and put the hand brake on, running into the entrance. Moments later, between his cadence of his breathing for two, John heard the metallic noise of a trolley, then the sound of door handles opening and he felt the cool night air on his side.

"Let me take over, sir. We've got this." Hands in blue scrubs pulled him aside, and then out of the BMW. They moved Sherlock onto a back board, and John's breath into Sherlock was replaced by the mechanical action of a squeezed air bag and mask. As John leaned back against the side of the car to catch his own breath and chase away the black spots in front of his eyes, he watched Sherlock being wheeled into the Emergency Department.

But the time he recovered enough to follow, the trauma team were already at work. John was reassured by the heart monitor's steady beat. He stepped forward through the doors, to speak to the team leader. "I'm Doctor John Watson, his primary physician. I also have medical power of attorney. There are things you need to know about him. He's a recovering cocaine addict. He's on the Autistic Spectrum. He suffers from Sensory Processing Disorder, and has just had a meltdown. Allodynia and synaesthesia present. The wrist is broken; he says it's been broken before, but I've seen his medical records which don't mention it."

"I'm Doctor Ignubou, Attending tonight. How did he get this wrist injury?" It was calmly asked, the routine process of gathering yet another patient's history. The nature of the fall would say much about the break.

"He fell out of bed."

"Any head injury? Why's he unconscious?"

"No injury in the fall. In melt-down on the way here, he had a panic attack, became violent and…self-harming. I had no sedative. I punched him in the jaw, knocked him out to stop him from hurting himself more."

That made the trauma doctor to lift his attention away from the patient so he could look John in the eye. "An unorthodox treatment, what sort of doctor are you?"

"A retired army trauma surgeon. Battlefield conditions require quick thinking."

That brought a smile to the other doctor's face. "Well, Saturday night in an Emergency Department is something of a battleground, but _we_ don't go punching our patients. Wish we could, at times." He then asked one of the juniors. "Portable X Ray, please."

The oxygen sat figures dipped and a soft alarm went off. "Intubate, please, Doctor Rajiv." He observed the junior complete the procedure, and the digital figures began to climb back up.

"Which is his dominant hand?"

John tore his eyes away from the oxygen saturation monitor. "Right- but he's virtually ambidextrous. Oh, and he plays the violin. So, the left wrist is more important than it is to most."

"Well, doctor, your patient is lucky. We have one of the best trauma orthopaedics departments in the country here. Now, I need you to talk to the staff outside, get his details sorted."

When he saw John's reluctance to leave, the doctor just said quietly "Leave him to us now; he's stable and in good hands, doctor."

For the first time since he'd been woken up, John realised that he could relax, just a little. He nodded and left the room.

oOo

Twenty minutes later, Doctor Ignubou came down the corridor to where John was drinking a coffee, waiting in chairs. He'd sent Brunton home. "No point in both of us waiting. I'll call Musgrave Hall when I have some news." The tall West African was carrying some x ray films. "A word, Doctor Watson?"

John went back down the hall toward the room. The ED doctor stopped at a light box, and slipped one of the films onto it. The fluorescent tube sputtered into life, and showed an image. "There's the main fracture." He pointed to the jagged line across the radius. And John could also see that Sherlock had been right- there were two more breaks on the same bone, splintering off a piece. "He said it was comminuted, a Barton's dorsal."

That made the other doctor raise his eyebrows. "He's medically trained then?"

"No, it surprised me, his familiarity with the terms."

"Well, take a closer look, doctor, because there is a reason he knows about these things." He pointed to another white line. "A healed styloid fracture here on the ulna; and two of the three new fractures on the radius are along old fracture lines." He then switched to the second film. "And because of that we took a look at the rest of his hand, too. Look- signs of five more broken bones- the carpal bones mostly, but here's a phalange, too." He pointed to the left hand's little finger, the section of the bone inside the hand itself. He switched films again. "Ortho will take a closer look in the morning, but, even though I'm not a specialist I can see all the previous damage. Must have been a couple of decades ago, when the bones were still growing, but the original injury was…significant."

He switched the light off. "His vitals are stable now, and we are keeping him sedated for the moment. We'll be moving him up shortly to the fifth floor Emergency Surgery Ward for assessment and more detailed scans as soon as the MRI opens- check for ligament damage. When the consultant arrives in the morning, he'll want to prep for an interior reduction. As much as he'd probably like to wait a while to let the swelling reduce, this unstable a set of fractures, and with that bone splinter, there's too great a risk of arterial and nerve damage, so it can't wait. Likely to involve a plate. In the meantime, see if you can track down the records for this original injury, it could help the surgeon in his reconstruction efforts."

Back in chairs, John looked at the place on his wrist where his watch usually sat- empty, left behind in his haste to get dressed. A look around the waiting area eventually found a wall clock- 4.19am, and a thirty three minute waiting time to see a doctor. The sparse crack of dawn crowd of people in the chairs were waiting patiently. He found his phone - luckily that had still been in his trouser pocket when he'd pulled them on. He walked outside into the brisk morning air. A scan down the speed dial, and he hit the one listed for Mycroft.

Three rings later, "John, what's happened?" _Why doesn't he ever sound sleepy?_ Day or night, Mycroft's calm voice never seemed to register any degree of alarm, even though his words showed that he knew John would not be calling unless there was a problem.

"I'm at Gloucestershire Royal Hospital. Sherlock's being treated for a broken wrist."

There was the briefest of pauses. "I assume he wasn't riding at this time of the morning? Thank you for sending me that video clip, by the way. How did it happen?" The tone was a little cautious, as if he knew that a simple fracture would probably not be sufficient cause for John to be waking the British Government at this hour.

"He fell out of bed."

That raised a little laugh. "Oh lord, how pedestrian! He will be _most_ annoyed."

"Mycroft, it's not the first time. What happened the first time he broke his wrist?"

The seriousness of the doctor's tone provoked a cautious pause. "August 17, 1994; I wasn't in the country at the time. Father later told me that Sherlock had broken his wrist. Why do you ask?"

"Because Sherlock said he'd broken it before, but when I saw the x rays- well- it wasn't just a wrist the first time. There were _seven_ broken bones. There would have been extensive cartilage damage, soft tissues, tendons, muscles. It was a significant injury, not a simple fall- and there are _no_ records of it in that nine inch pile you gave me six months ago. That's odd- distinctly odd. The orthopaedic surgeon here will want the details before he operates."

"The new injury needs surgery?"

"Yes- interior reduction, a plate, he's not going to be playing the violin anytime soon. But, I'm more worried about the original injury, because it just might explain why he went into total meltdown in the car on the way to the hospital- just lost it completely. Allodynia and synaesthesia. He became violent, but was trying to hit his own hand, his broken wrist. I can't imagine _why_ he would do that, not to mention the agony he was inflicting on himself. Maybe it's related to the first time. The trainer at Musgrave remembers Sherlock from 1994, said that he'd heard that Sherlock's horse died. Could that and the injury be linked?"

"I don't know. I told you that when we last spoke. I don't know why Sherlock stopped riding."

Then the doctor realised what was bothering him. "Mycroft, _why_ don't you know more about this?"

There was the briefest of pauses. "As I said, I was out of the country at the time. When I telephoned Father in mid-September, he mentioned an incident. That was his exact word- an _incident_. Said Pirate had died, and that Sherlock had broken his wrist, but he was back at school. It was a dreadful line- kept cutting out. The next time I saw Sherlock was seven weeks later, at our father's funeral. I seem to remember he was still wearing some sort of thing on his wrist, but not a proper cast. We didn't discuss it. I had other things on my mind at the time. We both did."

_Oh. _That was something he had not known until now- when Sherlock's father had died. Losing a mother at ten, and a father at fifteen. John knew how his friend had never got on with his father. Still, becoming an orphan, and totally reliant on Mycroft in a parental role. Even a hate figure was a point of stability to someone on the Spectrum, and losing that would be upsetting in a way that neurotypicals wouldn't understand. So soon after losing a beloved horse? Emotionally traumatic wouldn't begin to describe it. "How did your father die?"

"It was a car accident in Jakarta; he was killed instantly. I got home the day before the funeral, Sherlock insisted on going back to school the day after, claiming that he needed to focus on his A level preparation. During the times we were together on those three days, he wasn't communicative, but not apparently distressed. You know they didn't get on. I spent the next week sorting out legal and financial issues, and then had to return to my posting overseas. I was in the middle of something…rather delicate."

Then there was another pause. "I am as surprised as you are, John, about the missing records. Leave it with me. I will do some digging. As it turns out, I have a meeting later today after lunch at GCHQ in Cheltenham, so I will be in the area. I will stop by the hospital before that. And, thank you, John; you were right to call."

When they had said their goodbyes, John settled back into his chair. He found it frustrating that he'd have to wait until after 8am at the earliest. NHS hospitals didn't like to operate between midnight and 8 am unless the injury was life or limb threatening. Their argument was that everyone was tired and there was good evidence that mortality and complications go up dramatically in the middle of the night. John couldn't help but think that everyone was going soft. Some of his best surgeries in Afghanistan had been in the wee hours of the morning. Neither the enemy nor casualties respected clocks or surgeons' convenience, so they'd been used to operating all night, if necessary.

A glance at the wall confirmed what he already knew- 4:43am. He had a long wait ahead of him. Hospitals were very much like being in the army- moments of frantic, terrifying activity, followed by long periods of boredom, hanging around waiting for something to happen. Except when it came to Sherlock's health, he was never sure, really sure, which one he preferred.


	15. Chapter 15

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Author's Warning: _Chapters thirteen through seventeen are heavy duty angst. Don't like, don't read! _**As ever, I am indebted to Kate221b for medical assistance, but casualties of fact and interpretation of wrist issues are mine, all mine.

* * *

The staff allowed him to move from the Emergency Department chairs to the fifth floor waiting area at eight o'clock in the morning, before the orthopaedic surgeon arrived to prepare for the reduction on Sherlock's injury. At 10.15 the junior doctor started to explain the process to John, before he abruptly cut her off.

"I'm a trauma surgeon, so be specific. Are you sure it requires surgery?"

The junior blanched. She was a sweet looking girl. _You know you're getting old when the junior doctors start looking like school kids._

"Well, then, doctor, you know the drill. The ED has to be in a hurry; we have more time. The initial AP and lateral view showed a nasty fracture. We've taken an oblique view, and an elbow view to check for a Galeazzi fracture and dislocation at the radioulnar joint at the elbow. Given his prior injuries, we also took a scaphoid view. No sign of that this time, luckily. It's a nasty comminuted, intra-articular fracture with a significant amount of dorsal angular distortion to boot. It's going to need open fixation - we're debating a Stryker plate or a new bio-absorbable version."

John digested this. "I'd go with tried and tested metal myself. What about nerve and arterial damage?"

"Well, the consultant says he won't know for certain until he gets in there, but he is worried about pressure on the median nerve, which is why he wants to operate soon."

"Who's doing the surgery?"

"Will Masters- he heads up the hand and wrist trauma service. I thought he was on holiday, but he called in this morning to say that he'd been contacted by someone in London, and convinced to take the case. He should be here by ten." She paused. "He asked me to ask you whether you have the records of the original injuries. He wants to see them, if possible, because it could help understand this patient's recovery."

John shook his head, "no, I don't have them, sorry. It happened before my time and they weren't in his files. "

She shrugged her shoulders philosophically. "If they haven't arrived by ll.30, he'll operate anyway."

John heard footsteps behind him, the certain tread of expensive leather shoes, and recognised it as belonging to Mycroft, even before he turned around. "I suppose you had something to do with the consultant's decision to return from holiday?"

Mycroft didn't reply. He introduced himself to the junior doctor. "Please excuse us, doctor, but Doctor Watson and I need to speak privately. Your director of services has kindly offered us the use of his office. Would you be so kind as to take us there?" She led the way to the lift, and they went up three floors, then along a corridor to an office suite. The junior doctor handed them over to the Director's PA, who brought them through into a rather well appointed office, with a round meeting table and chairs.

"Coffee is on the table. The Director won't be in today; he's meeting with the Primary Care Trust governors today, so the room is all yours. I'm outside if you need anything." Mycroft gave her one of his diplomatic smiles that John had come to recognise- seemingly pleasant, but not reaching his eyes.

As soon as the door closed behind her, John turned to Mycroft. "What's going on?"

The elder Holmes pulled out a laptop from his briefcase, and checked his phone, then left it on the table. "I'm waiting on something from my PA. Finding these missing records has not been easy. When nothing in the southeast came up under his name, I asked her to check all admissions for the week of 17 August, to see if anyone came in with a wrist fracture. When my plane landed twenty minutes ago at Gloucester airport, she phoned to say that she was on a new track; she found one admission fitting the description at Worthing Hospital, which happens to be the nearest casualty department to the estate. She's chasing up the records now."

He opened his laptop, used a fingerprint reader and a password, then called up a file. "Something to keep you amused while we wait." Mycroft turned the laptop around, and John could see a photo application had been opened. He watched as a great swathe of thumbnail images appeared on the screen- almost every one of them of a certain teenager on a particular black horse. John sat down and started to explore, his smile growing.

There were show ring photos, cross country photos, and lots of winner posed shots. Sherlock never looked at the camera. Almost always, his eyes were on Pirate. The thumbnails were dated over three years, and John saw a slender boy growing up, gaining height at an alarming rate, hands and feet becoming too big for the rest of the body, but somehow finding elegance in the dressage kit. _Must have cost a fortune to keep him in clothes and boots that fit._

John found himself focusing on the candid images more. Sherlock on a stepladder in a stall, half way through braiding that ridiculously long mane; another in a stable yard, washing a very muddy Pirate down with a sponge full of soapy water. The horse looked annoyed; an equally muddy Sherlock was laughing. Some just of the horse running free in a paddock- that amazing tail and mane flying wild in the wind. Another, with Pirate stretched out flat on the ground asleep in the sun; Sherlock was leaning up against him like a sofa, reading a book. John decided that was his favourite.

"Who took these?"

"Dirk Guilliams, the trainer. He was the one who saw Sherlock's potential, and agreed to train both him and the horse. He was up in north London at first, near Harrow but came down in the summers to the estate. He was Belgian, he and Sherlock spoke French all the time. I was sent these photos four years ago, when he died of cancer. His nephew found them in his uncle's effects, with a note to send them on. I tried to give them to Sherlock; he refused to even open the package."

John looked up at that comment. "Why? I just don't understand it, Mycroft. He rides like…well, I don't know how to describe it. I used to think his violin playing was the best expression of the emotions, the artistic creativity he won't ever admit to having, but then I saw him ride yesterday and now I know what he's _really_ good at. How could he stop it?"

A flicker of sadness came and went through Mycroft's eyes. Very softly, he said "I don't know, John. I wish I did. I wasn't there."

Mycroft's phone on the table began to vibrate. He glanced at the caller ID and took the call.

"Yes, my dear. What have you found?" John couldn't hear what she had to say. Mycroft was listening intently, then his eyes just closed for a moment. "Yes, that would make sense. Can you e mail the records?" His frown grew at whatever he was hearing from the other end. "Very well, if you're certain. I will get the fax number and call you back."

"Well?" John's impatience showed in his tone of voice.

"It appears that Sherlock was admitted under a false name- a fifteen year old is listed as being admitted on the 17th of August to Worthing Hospital, with multiple fractures of his wrist and hand. According to the records, he was brought in by his father, Frank Wallace. If you recall, you met our gamekeeper Wallace when you were at the estate about a year after you first met Sherlock.* I know for a fact that he has no son. She says it would be best not to scan and email the records, for reasons that will become clear when I get them. She is going to fax them, as soon as I get the number from the secretary outside, and can be there to collect the sheets as they come off the fax."

Mycroft looked back at the lap top. "In the meantime, carry on with the photos. Try to confine yourself to this folder." He gave John one of his smiles. "Wouldn't do to get too curious about what _else_ is on this laptop."

_As if_. John knew Sherlock would be happy to prowl around on his brother's personal lap top, but he was glad that Mycroft knew him well enough to show such trust. He turned back to the slide show and clicked on the arrow to the right, bringing up a next image. This one had Sherlock using a hose, and the horse drinking from the flow. Sherlock had one of those 'searchlight smiles' lighting up his whole face. Over the next ten minutes, John searched out photos that had that look, and found it more often than not-the smile that John knew was truly genuine, and not the calculated expression of a manipulative, self-confessed sociopath.

His own smile was still on his face when he heard the office door re-open behind him. One look at Mycroft, however, wiped it off. The man looked ashen. Tightly controlled, with no emotion visible, but somehow the pallor alone was enough to tell John something.

Mycroft handed him the papers. "Nine pages. I've stapled them in order. Take your time. You'll probably understand it faster than I did. You are, after all, a doctor."

John resisted the temptation to dive deeper into the pile. In sequence-understand what happened the way the medical professionals did on the night of the 17th- no, already he saw that was wrong. 'Peter Wallace' was admitted at 1.38am on the 18th of August. A minor, fifteen years old. Unconscious, naked. (_Naked? Why?) _covered in blood, not all of it his, acute respiratory distress, brought on by smoke inhalation (_Oh my God, a FIRE!)_. Multiple compound fractures to the left wrist and hand. Significant blood loss. In shock. Lacerations on all four limbs, significant contusions across 20% of his body. John's eyes widened as he read the medical report describing the location of the worst of the lacerations and contusions- both wrists and both ankles. He'd been on enough crime scenes with Sherlock to know what this meant- _ligature marks._ The left ulna had been broken in a fracture typical of someone subjected to assault. He stopped reading the front ED admission sheet, took a deep breath, and thumbed to page three. Seconds later, he whispered, "_no..." _

"Yes, unfortunately. Keep reading." Mycroft's voice was a monotone.

John did. He did some speed reading through the four pages of detailed notes about the hand and wrist injuries. Not a fall; the velocity and energy needed to make these fractures were different. A number were clearly crush trauma- blows designed to damage bone, muscle, tendons, nerves-anything that got in the way. The data detailed the surgical procedures, the K wires, the internal plate on one fracture, and external fixation, using the percutaneous wires to pin other bone fragments transversely beneath subchondral bone. He pulled the staple, separated the four sheets that he would pass to Will Masters.

He kept reading. Some of the bruising that emerged hours after admission was clear evidence that Sherlock had been severely beaten. Bruised ribs, his face had been cut, and he had two black eyes, bruised cheek bones and jaw. Soft tissue damage would have healed by the time Mycroft saw him again at their father's funeral two months or more after the injuries were inflicted. _He was only fifteen. Five foot seven and one hundred and twenty six pounds._ The rough data was there, but it told a story of its own. Sherlock could not have been able to put up much of a fight against an adult intent on damage.

Twice he had to put the papers down and close his eyes. The first time came when he read the details of the examination that took place after they got the patient intubated, blood cleaned off, the arm more or less stabilised. The paragraphs that covered the evidence of another kind of assault- bleeding and tearing in the patient's anus caused by penetration of a foreign object. The second time was the Emergency Department's Psych consult report, which detailed a traumatised patient who, when he did finally recover consciousness seventeen hours later, became hysterical, could not bear to be touched without screaming, would not speak or make eye contact, who had to be physically restrained and sedated. The doctor might read these objectively as a professional, the friend could not. But, the need to know made him pick up the papers to read through to the finish. The last page was a suspiciously simple discharge note, eight days after admission, with the bland notation "at parental request, against medical advice."

When he did manage to reach the end of the last page, in a voice that betrayed just how angry he was, he said, "How was this…allowed to go unreported? For God's sake, Mycroft- the hospital should have reported this to social services, to the police. There would have had to be follow-up. Investigation, prosecution. _Nine_ pages? Is that all? There should have been ten times as much- _months _of follow up medical records. There is _no way_ this could have been covered up." His voice was choked. Through clenched teeth he asked the question that had sat on him, heavy as lead, since the first realisation that this was an assault. "Where was your father when this happened?"

Mycroft's answer was instantaneous. "Overseas. There is _no_ possibility that he could have done this. He was away for at least two weeks before the 17th. I know that for certain, because I spoke to him by phone in the Far East. He was in Jakarta the day before this happened. No, he's not the one who did this."

John took two deep breaths, looked across at the man now sitting across the table from him and said accusingly, "Then who the _hell_ did? And how is it even remotely possible that _you_ didn't know it had happened?"

Mycroft's eyes met John's. There was no effort made to hide the fact that he shared the doctor's feelings. "I have no idea, John." Then his eyes hardened. "But, I am going to find out; of that you can be absolutely certain." As if he needed reminding, that brought to mind Sherlock's description of Mycroft as "the most dangerous man you will ever meet." _Well, this makes two of us, when it comes to someone hurting Sherlock._ "Mycroft, I want to be there when you start asking questions." The elder Holmes stood up, collected his laptop, and then nodded. "I will be back this afternoon after my meeting, John, by which time I hope to have some answers. Stay in touch, if there are any urgent developments."

* * *

*** Author's note:** this meeting between John and Frank Wallace will be covered in a future story called _The Shooting Party_- expect it out before October and the start of the new pheasant season. If you don't want to miss it, follow me as an author. To understand what happened to Sherlock six months ago with the Russian criminal, and why John has read a nine inch pile of medical records about Sherlock, read my story called _Sidelines_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Author's Warning: **_**Chapters thirteen through sixteen are heavy duty angst. Don't like, don't read!** _

* * *

John returned to the fifth floor waiting area, telling the desk receptionist there that he would like to see the consultant. A few minutes later, Will Masters appeared and introduced himself. John handed over the four sheets and talked him through the injuries. He gave no details about the circumstances of how the injury occurred.

"Where are the follow-up reports? The details of when all that meccano was removed? The three and six month assessment reports?" The middle-aged consultant asked the question curiously.

"I haven't been able to track those down yet."

Masters looked thoughtful. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter for the moment. I think it best to proceed as quickly as possible. The fracture is so unstable that we need to get it fixed or risk nerve damage. He obviously dealt with metal the last time, so we'll go with that again. It may be old fashioned, but it is strong. Given the fact that he will want to get movement going as quickly as possible, to keep the tendons and muscles from tightening, then it's best to maximise the strength of the fixing plate."

John nodded. It had been his assessment, too.

"Did I hear correctly from the junior? The patient plays the violin?" Masters sounded sceptical.

"Yes."

The consultant's eyebrows rose. "That's surprising. Given the original injuries, it would take at least a year of exercises to recover enough flexibility and strength to resume playing. And given the scarring and bone thickening that occurs in these sorts of injuries, then he must be in considerable pain every time he plays."

John considered this. "I've heard him, and you wouldn't know that pain is involved. He is good enough to be a solo performer with an orchestra."

"What's the longest you've ever heard him play?"

It was an odd question, and not one that John had really thought about.

"I'll bet, Doctor Watson, that it isn't more than an hour at any one time. It would be too painful to keep up longer than that. And that means the original injury probably cost him his professional musical career."

_And put paid to him ever riding again, too, if the injury is in any way associated with what killed Pirate._ He gave a strained smile to Masters. "Let's hope that this time the injury won't limit his playing even more. He needs it. Says it helps him think."

"Well, assuming that the surgery goes well, this time is more manageable. And as an adult, his commitment to physio should be better. I understand you are his primary care physician?"

John nodded. "Then the biggest issue will be post-operative pain management. The hypersensitivity will add another dimension."

John remembered just how difficult it had been when Sherlock had been injured in a confrontation with a Russian criminal. He gave a rueful laugh that had no humour in it, "Been there, done that, and we both have the scars to prove it."

There was sympathy in Masters' eyes. "The surgery is scheduled for just after noon and should be over in about two hours. When he gets into recovery, I can let you through to see him. My guess is that he'll do better to see a familiar face when he wakes up."

"Thank you; yes, that would be a good idea." The consultant then thanked him for the sheets on the original break and said it was time for him to get to work.

As John returned to the chairs and settled in, he found himself wishing that he was the one able to return to work. He'd spent far too much time _waiting_ while Sherlock underwent surgery or treatment. _High _maintenance- yes, it was an accurate description of Sherlock. He hated that horrible limbo of not being in the operating theatre, of not knowing enough to be able to make a medical judgement for himself, of not being able to take action- of being _not_ in control- it was all so alien to his preferred method of operation. As a trauma surgeon, he'd been the one to take decisions, right or wrong.

Of course, fractures were something he'd come across time and time again in Afghanistan. Roadside IEDs did not respect the difference between bone, muscle, nerves or arteries. Too many amputations – when the injuries threatened life, the surgeon simply had to remove unviable bones that would never heal because the damage to everything else was simply too traumatic. When a limb could be saved, he'd had his fair share of metal work- plates, pins, and wires – internal and external fixation were used to stabilise things until the orthopaedic specialists back home could figure out how to re-construct.

Well, one decision he could make was to get out of these wretched chairs and go downstairs to the cafeteria to get something to eat while he waited. After telling the receptionist where he would be, John followed her directions to the ground floor facility, and got himself a breakfast. Over a coffee that was marginally better than that offered at St Bart's, he realised he had a choice. He could spend the time worrying about the revelations in the five pages that didn't relate to the hand injury, trying to understand what had happened, how Pirate had died and who would do such a thing to a young boy. Or, he could use the time to think over the Musgrave case. Until Mycroft came up with some answers, focussing on the assault was simply… too distressing. So, he decided to compartmentalise- to just set the horror aside until he had more facts- and deal with what he did know about the case that had brought them to Gloucestershire in the first place.

Last night, Sherlock had been so elusive and elliptic- keeping his ideas to himself rather than sharing them with John. _Some 'conductor of light'; this time he's keeping me in the dark. _ Was that because he somehow suspected Reginald Musgrave in some way? Enough to refuse to divulge anything more than the minimum necessary when he was around? Or was he just pissed off with John for making him take a case that reminded him of a traumatic loss.

There wasn't much to go on. Sherlock had dismissed Fitzroy Simpson as a suspect, despite the police finding Blaze's missing horse shoe in his possession. The consulting detective seemed to have 'consulted' no one, yet he'd suggested that Bill Stryker was somehow involved in the theft of the cup. _Why? That makes no sense. What possible motive could the trainer have for disrupting the Wessex Cup_? Did Stryker somehow think he could sell the cup and use the proceeds to buy Blaze? If so, why did he then get murdered? And by whom? Who would have a motive for killing him, except the people who were buying the cup? Kill the trainer and just take it- yet, Sherlock had dismissed the idea out of hand.

At the crime scene, Sherlock had shown how Highwood Blaze was spirited away, but then thrown cold water on Colonel Ross's idea that the horse might have been taken and held for ransom. It had been done before of course- the champion racehorse Shergar had been horse-napped, but then no ransom demand was ever made, presumably because something happened to the horse. Outright theft? John didn't know enough about horse breeding, but surely there could be more cash from distraught owners than from under-the-counter stud fees. Sale value of any offspring depended on being able to prove the horse's parentage, surely.

He was at a dead end. As he ate the now soggy slice of toast (_Why can't any cafeteria ever produce crispy toast?)_, he thought about Sherlock's latest line of enquiry. What on earth did an ancient riddle written in the 17th century have to do with the theft? Yet, Sherlock was certain it was connected. He'd grilled Brunton to the point of embarrassing everyone. The idea of using sleeping tablets in bedside water glass just sounded…like some cliché from a crap crime drama- the sort that would provoke Sherlock into shouting at the TV when John was trying to watch it. In any case, what _difference_ did it make _how_ the thief got into the Silver Room? Surely the most important fact was that someone had stolen it? Normally when Sherlock was investigating a murder linked with theft, he used his contacts in the criminal world of antique fences, to see if anyone had seen anything. Something as distinctive as the Wessex Cup would surely have been noticed. Yet, unless he'd done so when John wasn't around, Sherlock seemed to have made no effort to do so.

Actually, that's what was pissing John off. Sherlock had been treating him as… as if John were on holiday, rather than as a partner involved in the case. That rankled. But, maybe it was fair. He'd gone on and on about it at the flat, how he wanted to get back on a horse, see the countryside, take a break from London crime. Maybe, in his own weird way, Sherlock was actually respecting what he thought John wanted. _I'm so stupid at times; I just assume he's being a prat because he so often is._

He thought about trying to apologise about what he'd said to Sherlock in the Library. But…it seemed so irrelevant now that he had learned about what had happened all those years ago. It was the elephant in the room. How on earth was he going to be able to pretend that he didn't know that as a teenager Sherlock had been brutally assaulted and somehow caught up in a fire that probably claimed his horse's life?

John knew that Sherlock would not want him to know. If he'd kept it hidden from Mycroft for all these years, he would not want it to come out now. For all John knew, Sherlock might have actually 'deleted' the memory, along with knowledge of the solar system. Maybe it was his coping mechanism, and the wrist injury was now bringing suppressed memories back to the surface.

_Oh, HELL. I wish I'd never been so pushy!_ If they'd stayed in Baker Street, Sherlock wouldn't now be under a surgeon's knife. And even if the wrist was just one of those accidents that happen anywhere, he had to deal with the fact that his desire to ride must have brought back a lot of painful memories to his friend. There was an obvious reason- one that John understood all too well now- why Sherlock had been reluctant to take the case on. The doctor looked down at the tray of half-eaten breakfast, and lost his appetite. He cleared it away and went outside to call Musgrave Hall and fill them in about the wrist injury, as he promised he would. Then he went back upstairs to wait during Sherlock's surgery, to find out the consequences of his selfishness.

oOo

At half past two, the junior doctor came out to fetch him and take him into the post-op recovery area. He was relieved to see Sherlock was no longer intubated, and that the monitors showed his vitals were stable. He grimaced at the dark bruise coming out along Sherlock's jawline- the consequences of John's punch in the car. The young woman said that the operation had gone well, that there were no complications, and that the consultant expected a good recovery.

"Just one surprise- it took quite a while for the general anaesthesia to take effect, and then he went under deeper than expected. The anaesthetist was kept on his toes a bit." She did warn that it would be hours yet before he woke up. "We will move him out of here before four, and then you can stay with him if you want. But I wouldn't expect him to regain consciousness until late tonight."

He went back to the waiting area, and had a cup of machine tea (this _was_ worse than what he could get at St Barts). He was dozing in the chair when someone touched his shoulder gently. He looked up to see the secretary that had taken him into the hospital's Director of Services' office. "Mr Holmes has sent me to find you. He wants you to join him in one of the meeting rooms. I can take you there now."

She took him back up to the same floor where the director's office had been, but this time led him to a meeting room, knocked and then gestured him in, closing the door behind him. The room had an oval table and an atmosphere so tense that you could have cut it with a scalpel. Mycroft stood at the end farthest from the door, his face was set. On the surface there seemed no evidence of emotion, but John knew him well enough to know that the man was radiating menace. Halfway down the table, seated in a chair was Frank Wallace, a late middle-aged man with greying hair, whose eyes were fixed down on the table. He looked up at John's arrival. John recognised him from the time he had been to the estate for a weekend's shooting party. He'd liked the man then, but didn't have that much contact with him. And whatever he might have thought two years ago, if he was in any way involved with what happened to a fifteen year old Sherlock, then John would revise that opinion instantly.

"Doctor Watson asked to join us, Wallace; it appears he needs to hear your answers as much as I do."

That made the man look up at Mycroft with both concern and curiosity. In his broad Scot's accent, "Good, then let's get on with the questions. Nobody has been willing to tell me a thing about this ever since the car arrived at ten o'clock and I was told to get in. So. M'lord*, what can I do for you?" The man's lack of fear was evident in the steady voice.

Mycroft came up to the seated man, using his height to dominate the room. He laid out the five sheets of faxed paper side-by-side in front of Frank. "You can explain these."

Wallace read the first page, and then nodded to himself. "Well, …I was wondering when you'd finally want to talk about this." John was surprised to hear some relief in his tone. The Gamekeeper was not over-awed or cowed by the menace in Mycroft's question. And he did not act like a guilty man. Something loosened a bit in John's shoulder; he had not realised how tight he was holding himself.

The Gamekeeper continued, "Aye, I'll answer, but, first tell me, why _now? _Why do you want this out in the open _now_?

John answered, "Because Sherlock was admitted to this hospital last night with a broken wrist. It took us a while to figure out why there was no record of the original injury that came to light on the x rays."

Mycroft stepped into the conversation. "My people eventually uncovered this record of admission, and a list of injuries that do not involve just broken bones. Mr Wallace, do you have something else you wish to admit to us?"

Surprise and then anger crossed the gamekeeper's face. "Och, no- _you_, of all people- you're not going to suggest I had anything to do with it! I just took him to the bloody hospital. It was your father's idea to list him under my name."

Mycroft was not placated. "I know for a fact that my father was out of the country on the night in question, so if I were you, Mister Wallace, I would be very careful. I need a _detailed_ explanation of what exactly happened."

The Scot pushed his chair back and stood up, clearly angry at the implications of Mycroft's words. "Aye, of course he was out of the country, wasn't he always?! But that dinna mean I couldn't call him. While waiting for the ambulance, I phoned Jakarta and told him what had happened to Sherlock. There was no love lost between him and the boy, but he still had a right to know about his son. And, M'Lord, _you_ were out of reach at the time, somewhere in Central America."

Mycroft was not mollified in the slightest. In a manner that told of his years of experience with interrogation, with real steel in his tone came the reply, "Don't deflect, tell us _exactly_ what happened."

The Gamekeeper got his temper under control and gripped the back of the chair. "It was horrible. You have no idea…. The dogs in the kennels woke me up at about quarter past midnight. It wasn't the usual kind of ruckus, like when a fox comes too close. I went out to see what was going on, and that's when I saw the glow in the sky. You know where the new stable yard is- on its own in the Paddock Wood. Rackham Copse and the Ash Grove are between my cottage and the Yard. But, I could see there was a fire. I rang the fire department, and rushed over there. The place was just ablaze. The flames had consumed most of the stable block, there was just nothing left but burning beams and timbers.

"The fire service from Pullborough arrived about fifteen minutes later. In the meantime, I got some of the estate workers over- and they located four of the horses out in the fields. It was high summer, the grass in the paddocks meant they stayed out at nights, growing fat. Only Pirate, he'd be in his stall because the trainer was determined to keep him trim for Gatcombe, so no grass. At that time, I could only think that Sherlock was going to be devastated. But the firemen said there was no evidence of a trapped horse in what was left of the stable."

Wallace looked down at the table, as if he needed to focus on something other than his memories. "One of the workers found them- about a quarter of a mile away by the Woodmill Pond. By the time I got there, Pirate was dead- bled to death, a piece of wood from the stable where he smashed his way out, stabbed into his chest, but he kept running until he couldn't anymore. Sherlock was lying there beside him. Stark naked he was, couldn't figure that out. Covered in blood. Thought it was Pirate's to start. The boy's hand and arm- a mess, but we picked him up and took him back to the cottage where I could call an ambulance. While I waited, I called your father."

"It was his idea to use my name. Said if any decisions had to be made that there'd be no questions asked if they thought I was his father. It made sense at the time. We couldn't reach you. And he said he was going to be in meetings for most of the day, so might not be able to pick up a call."

For the first time, Wallace seemed a bit hesitant. "So 'Peter' was admitted to Worthing Hospital. It was a couple of hours later that they came out and told me that his injuries were caused by assault. I had thought he must have been hurt by the horse, trying to get him free of the burning stable. I dinna know there was more to it."

"The hospital staff said they'd have to contact the authorities in the morning. Well, that would have scuppered the disguise; I'd have to tell them who he really was. So, I made a collect call from the hospital and told your father the news. He said stick to the story, he'd take care of it, whatever that meant."

Mycroft stopped prowling the room and looked back at Wallace. "Take care of it? Yes… I suppose he would want to do that. To keep it quiet, to protect the family from scandal."

The Gamekeeper's expression darkened. "Aye. When I called four hours later to update him after the surgery, he told me that he'd sorted it. I never found out how, or what he said. I was to keep up the pretence that 'Peter' was my son, and to get him out of hospital as fast as I could." The Gamekeeper allowed his scorn to show. "He didn't give a damn about Sherlock. Never had, never did. But, he'd done his magic-no police, no social services. Just a doctor explaining the post-surgery treatment to me. Next day, when Sherlock woke up, he was hysterical. A mess- I couldn'a get any sense out of him, about what had happened, who had done…what they did. The docs just sedated him. Then three days after the fire, your father shows up. Dinna exactly hurry home, did he? He comes to the hospital to talk to me and I tell him that Sherlock's not said a word about the incident. He dinna even look in the room, just tells me he's off back up to London, I'm to take the boy home. I told him that the doctors wanted Sherlock to stay; they were worried about his state of mind. He told me what to say, and he told me that if I didn't, then it would be my job."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed at that. "And you let your own concerns take precedence?"

"Don't make me into the villain here, I won't have that. Your father told me that if I didn't follow through with the charade and get Sherlock back home, then he'd have the boy committed to an institution, sectioned and buried away again, like he did when your mam died. Well, the way I figured it, Sherlock would be better off home with us than that. So, I did what I could. Mrs Walters – she knew nothing about the assault- she and I nursed him back to some semblance of health over the next four weeks, made sure he got to the clinic appointments in Pullborough to get the bones to heal. For the first three weeks, nary a word out of him. Then a few sentences. I asked him; I begged him to tell me what had happened. I said I'd go to the police with him, protect him from his father's threats. He wouldn't have it. I told him I could call you. He said I wasn't to do that. The day before school term started, he said he wanted to go back. So, we got him off to Harrow. He was safer there."

John wanted to ask too many questions. He settled on one. "After their father died, why didn't you say something then?"

"Because Sherlock begged me not to." The Gamekeeper straightened up and looked Mycroft right in the eye. "He said you _knew_, and had agreed with your father's approach, to keep it quiet no matter what."

That surprised Mycroft; for a moment he seemed to be stunned into stillness. When he looked up again, it was to John that he spoke. "I didn't know about the assault. It may be that Father told him that I did, to try to stop him from taking any action. Or, it may be that by then silence suited Sherlock. I can't be sure which is the truth until I talk to him. The former might explain some of the paranoia we saw six months ago." Now he looked back at the Gamekeeper. "Mister Wallace, I can assure you, I knew only that Sherlock had broken his wrist and that the horse had died."

Some of the hostility in the man's shoulders eased. "Aye, I found it hard to believe the worst of you. But then, _you weren't there_. To everyone other than me, it just looked like the boy had lost his horse in a stable fire, and hurt himself trying to rescue it. Sad, distressing as it might be, but not …what it really was."

John butted in again. "But, _who, w_ho could have done such a thing to a fifteen year old boy?"

Wallace just shrugged. "Sherlock knows, but won't say. No matter how I begged or tried to convince him. When he came home from Harrow that Christmas, he said that if I ever mentioned it to a soul, he'd find a way to get me fired." Frank looked sad. "I forgave him the threat- he was just so determined to forget it all. He's not going to be happy with me telling you this now, I know that for sure."

John agreed. When he went back to sit with Sherlock, waiting for him to wake up, he was going to be accompanied by too many awkward truths. Should he confront them directly, and raise them with Sherlock?

"Mycroft, what do you think we should do?"

The silence in the room lengthened as the elder Holmes considered the question. In the end, he shrugged. "We have to let Sherlock decide. If he wants to talk about it, he will. If not, he won't. That's always been the case with him, and I see no reason to assume he's going to change now, do you, John?"

The doctor just shook his head, sadly.

* * *

***Author's Note**: to understand why Wallace calls Mycroft M'Lord, check out my five plus one story, Entitled. ACD canon has Sherlock admitting to being from "minor British aristocracy".


	17. Chapter 17

**Musgrave Blaze **

**Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

Through the fuzzy gauze of something cloying, thick and soft, wrapped around his brain, his senses started to wake up. Scent first- an assault of sharp disinfectant, antiseptic, followed by strong detergent aromas – then a realisation that they added up to a hospital. More disturbing, those aromas were mingled with body fluids- blood and lymph seeping through bandages. The scents of post-operative surgery. He sighed.

Sound came next- he heard his own sigh, a monitor's beep mingled with an undercurrent of electrical machine noise, the buzz of a fluorescent bulb, the tread of someone down a corridor with tiled floors, bouncing echoes of crepe-soled footsteps, the murmur of nurses' voices. And another person's breathing patterns, which had changed when they heard his sigh.

He didn't need to ask the question; his nose and ears told him who was in the room with him. But his eyes seemed reluctant to open for some reason, so he asked anyway, just to be sure. "Djn?" What he heard of his own voice told him his tongue wasn't quite awake yet.

"Hmmm. I'm here." Quiet, but oh so reassuring.

Why did hearing that voice matter so much? His brain struggled to catch the reasoning behind his visceral reaction.

Sherlock's tongue seemed to be stuck, dry, making it hard to form words. His throat hurt, too; he recognised it as the bruising from an intubation. In frustration, he moved his head a fraction. A flare of pain along his jawline woke up his neural pathways, and then the jaw paled into insignificance. His left arm felt… most peculiar. Both painful and yet as if it were semi-detached. Memory – this wasn't the first time he'd felt this particular connect-disconnect with an arm. But what was the memory? He couldn't find it. Just odd fragments- scraps of sensation. The blurred streetlights of a village, the velocity of a speeding car. A fire, smoke, panic, screaming. Had he been in a car accident?

He tried to open his eyes. Pain exploded across his visual field, but it was most odd- it didn't shout at him or stink the way pain usually did. There was just a jolt of electricity which his brain told him was pain, yet didn't feel like it. _Odd, I feel very odd. _He closed his eyes again.

He mumbled "drugs…"

"Yes, indeed, heavy duty general anaesthetic. They said you had a delayed reaction."

He seemed to getting more control of his tongue and mouth. "What happened?"

"You fell- broke your wrist."

Like a fuse, the words seemed to set off a fizzing flare of little memories leading back to something bigger, something that scared him, explosive, dangerous. There was a fire burning somewhere. He could smell smoke. Something black loomed on the edge of memory. His breath must have hitched a bit, a physical reaction to the thought processes that were beginning to blaze. He heard the monitor beep change rhythm, picking up pace, starting to move as fast as his thoughts were.

"Shssh. Stay calm. You fell out of bed. At Musgrave Hall. I promise not to tell the Yarders about it; they'd never let you live it down."

There was the faintest of chuckles in that last statement, and it had an odd soothing effect, a fire blanket that deprived oxygen from the flames. The fuse sputtered; he beat at it to put the sparks out, bundled up the charred remains of nameless things that distressed him and shoved them into the box, slamming the lid down. He threw the box back into the room, banged the double stable doors shut and slid both bolts across. _Not now!_

Memories of the bedroom at Musgrave Hall came into his mind. Of Reginald with his prattish sympathy. "Tough luck, old boy"- he hated that phrase, summed up everything he disliked so intensely about the English aristocracy.

Musgrave. _Yes; concentrate on that_. Strings of coloured thread, connecting images. An evidence board in his mind palace. He tied a blue string to the thumb tack on Stryker's autopsy photo, next to a blank sheet with a rose and a question mark on it. He pulled the string across, tacked it to Rosie and then drew it further- all the way to the yellow scroll. _Where was the shadow?...Under the elm. _ The old fashioned word came to mind- a drawing pin. He fished one out of his pocket and looped the blue string around it once then down onto the hand drawn map below, the one dated 1973 from the local authority, showing the spread of Ascomycota microfungi, carried by the elm bark beetle. The line of ten ancient elm trees felled in the park of Musgrave Hall, their positions carefully marked on the tree conservation department's order, their destruction necessary to prevent the spread, the planning officer's statement that identified the location and height of the trees to be destroyed. _What was the month?…..The sixth from the first._ The angle of the sun in June, what would it be? He was starting the mathematical calculations, when his attention was caught by an isolated photo on the top right corner of the evidence board, a black horse with a rider on it. He pulled it off, tore it up. _Nothing to do with this case, FOCUS!_ The pieces fluttered to the ground, turning to ash.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, John saw that he was calmer, more awake. The cardiac monitor was back to normal, his breathing pattern under control.

"John, when do you think I can be released? The case can't wait. "

The blond smiled, the expression blossoming into a little laugh. "Sherlock, it's nearly half past ten at night. You'll be here for a while yet."

"I've been here a WHOLE DAY!? That's _ridiculous_. I need to get back to the Hall. Pierson will have delivered the kit I need. We've got to do this quickly- there are only four more days left before the Cup is needed." Sherlock frowned at the cannula in his right hand, and then glanced over at his left arm- and scowled.

John tried to restrain his reaction. He knew Sherlock would deduce his concern, but decided to play along with his friend's insistence on focusing back on the case. _If he needs to ignore the elephant, then so can I_. "You were right by the way, clever clogs. It was a Barton's dorsal inter-articular fracture. You've now got a piece of metal holding the bone together, so don't go through any security gates or you'll set off the alarm."

"An open reduction."

"Yes- a Stryker plate." John decided that it was tactically wise not to make any reference at all to the previous occasion. He'd let Sherlock bring it up first.

The patient glared down at his offending limb. "Get the consultant in here and tell him I want a back splint behind a compression dressing. I'll get the proper thermoplastic cast sorted when we get back to London. The case will be solved by then and I can go to a therapist to get the exercises started. But, I _need_ to get back to Musgrave Hall as soon as possible."

John looked bemused. "Sherlock, just hold your horses. No one is going anywhere tonight- especially not you, especially when you're still recovering from surgery and general anaesthesia. Tomorrow, we can talk about it."

Sherlock transferred his glare to John. "I want my phone." He looked petulant. "If you won't get them to release me, I'll just call Mycroft. He can get whoever is needed out of bed to get me out of here tonight." This was delivered in the tone of a full-blooded strop. John looked fondly at the man.

"Nope. Not going to happen. First of all, your phone is back at Musgrave Hall, And second, because Mycroft has already spent whatever good will or persuasive powers he had here getting the best wrist and hand specialist back from holiday to do the surgery. I'm not going to call him tonight, and he's not going to call the consultant, just because you want to get out of here. So, lie back and tell me how you've solved it."

Sherlock's lower lip looked distinctly like it was forming a pout. "No. It will interfere with your _holiday_."

John snorted, his earlier suspicion confirmed. "So, that's what all this…silence and mystery has been about? You think I wanted to have a break, a vacation? That's why you've been keeping me in the dark about the case?"

Sherlock cast him a filthy look. "I can solve cases on my own, John. As much as you'd like to think you are indispensable, I am perfectly capable of functioning without you. As this case shows."

"So, you've solved it then?" He watched as Sherlock seemed to detach mentally from the conversation for a moment. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm? Nearly. A couple of loose ends but those should be easy- _provided I get out of this hospital._"

"Tomorrow."

Sherlock sighed. "Don't suppose you brought a laptop?"

"No, I was lucky to get my trousers on, you were in such a hurry to get here. That, I have to say, was a first- YOU _wanting_ to get to a hospital." But as soon as he said it, John worried- would it trigger Sherlock's memory of the melt down, of the previous injury?

Sherlock sighed. "Then what _use_ are you? Presumably you remembered _your_ phone?"

"Yes, but you know as well as I do that mobile calls are not allowed inside a hospital. What do you want it for?"

"Need an almanac. I need to get Musgrave Hall's coordinates, to determine the angle of the sun in June. Then I can finish the calculations."

"Is that the delirious muttering of a man coming out of general anaesthesia, or was that supposed to make sense?"

Sherlock sighed. "If you can't help, then go away, John." He closed his eyes wearily. The effects of the conversation, of the drugs slowing the brain work, were starting to sap his energy. "Go back to the Hall and make sure that Pierson delivered the kit I asked him for. I'll get discharged tomorrow and get a taxi to drop me off. This..." he waved his right hand, IV line and all, at his left arm "…is inconvenient, but I won't let it stop me from solving the case."

Sherlock didn't open his eyes when John looked back at him fondly before leaving. On the one hand, John was relieved to see that there were no signs of sensory distress, melt-down, or any inkling that his left wrist had been broken once before in more than just a simple fracture. It was as if the information on those nine faxed sheets of paper did not exist, and Frank Wallace's revelations about the events of 1994 had been deleted by the consulting detective. On the other hand, he was secretly pleased that Sherlock was back to his annoying best. John just found himself wishing he, too, had a delete button.

* * *

**Author's note:**_if in the previous chapter you liked the character of Frank Wallace, the Gamekeeper, check out chapter 21 of my story **Periodic Tales** where he teaches a twelve year old Sherlock how to use a shot gun._


	18. Chapter 18

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Eighteen **

* * *

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, it was to the sound of a nurse bringing in a breakfast tray. A "Good morning" was quietly said.

He snapped back, "It won't be _good_ until I get out of here. And, anyway, it's 11.45 according to your watch, nearly _afternoon, _which makes it decidedly _not good_."

She put the tray down on the bedside table, and then wheeled it over, before using the bed controls to bring him into a semi-sitting position. At some point in the night, the cardiac monitor had been removed from the room, and the cannula in his right hand was gone, too.

"I'm not hungry. All I want is for the consultant to show up, _now." _His tone of voice was peremptory.

"He said you'd be cranky."

Two furrows appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows. "_Who_ said that?"

"Doctor Watson. He called this morning and warned all the nurses on the floor. I drew the short straw." She gave him a rather piercing look. "Left my chair and bullwhip outside, but they're there, just in case. Sit up and let me put more pillows behind your back." He did so, grimacing slightly as the movement shifted his left arm and wrist.

"He said I was to give you this, but only if you agreed to eat something." She waved a folded piece of paper.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. He didn't say."

That irked Sherlock. His curiosity won out over his annoyance at being manipulated. He held his right hand out for the paper. She looked down pointedly at the dome-covered food tray. He gave her a sarcastic smile and lifted it, to see a big bowl of porridge, with a little jug of golden syrup. He poured the whole thing in, gave it a stir and took a mouthful. _Not bad._ It made him realise that he was hungry. He was on his third spoon when she handed him the paper.

He readit; "_Musgrave Hall lat= __51.7247__; __long__= -1.8987_."

He smiled. "Go away. I need to think." He took another spoonful. "No wait, on second thought, do tell the consultant I need to see him as soon as he gets in."

"He's 'in' already, actually in surgery. Contrary to what you might think, Mr Holmes, the consultant does have other patients. So, you will just have to be a _patient_ patient." That play on words earned her a filthy look that followed her out of the room.

By two o'clock, Sherlock was threatening to walk out. The third time she answered the call button to hear yet another rant, Nurse Graham just opened the bedside cupboard and removed his clothes. "I'm taking these for safe keeping."

"I can walk out wearing a sheet, you know. I've done it before."

She was not amused. "My bullwhip is called lorazepam, comes in a syringe and it will be used if you dare get out of bed."

The nursing station disconnected his call button after that.

At two thirty, Will Masters came into the room briskly, with Nurse Graham. "Right, Mr Holmes, let's take a look at my handiwork." The nurse removed the surgical bandages from his left arm, exposing the sutures. "Hmm. A little redness, that's to be expected. But, the swelling is down. The sutures look good, even if I do say so for myself." Sherlock was just as curious about the wound as the surgeon was, and leaned over to take a good look.

As his patient inspected the incision, Masters pressed ahead. "Well, you know the drill. I understand you're from London. I can give you the names of some top-class hand therapists. You'll need an appointment within four days to get the customised thermoplastic splint fabricated. He'll refresh your memory about the finger and thumb exercises. You'll need to keep the wrist elevated to keep the swelling down."

"Can you _finally_ discharge me now?"

"Give me a minute, will you?" The consultant did a few routine checks and asked a few questions, to which Sherlock replied "boring" more often than not. That made Masters smile. "I was warned you could be uncooperative."

That earned him a glare. "Just get on with it. I have work to do, and so do you."

"Nurse Graham, put on a compression dressing on the sutures, a back splint to keep the sutures accessible and then a sling that keeps the wrist at 70 degrees." He wrote something on the chart. "A prescription for some strong ibuprofen." He looked back at Sherlock. "Get Doctor Watson to change the dressing tomorrow. Use ice if it starts to swell. In ten days, get the sutures removed and let an ortho surgeon take another set of x rays to check everything is still in alignment. Tell us who and we'll send the records to him. Take it easy for the first couple of days. And, remember, _light_ exercise means _light,_ and not for at least two days_._"

That provoked a sigh from Sherlock. "I _know._"

"One last thing- less than 5% of patients need to have the plate surgically removed. Given your past history, I'd encourage you to keep it in."

Sherlock scowled. "Its predecessor interfered with the 15th and 16th positions on the E string. Short term pain, long term gain. Do you have a pencil or pen and a sheet of blank paper on that clipboard that I can have?"

Slightly thrown by the _non sequitur_, the consultant asked "Why?"

"Need to do some rather complicated trigonometry, for a case. While I'm still feeling a little slow because of your wretched anaesthetic, it's better to write it down rather than try to keep it in my head." Masters thumbed through the clipboard and found a form that had a blank back. Handing it and a pencil over, Sherlock just said "Thank you, doctor and good bye."

He then put the paper down on the bed table, starting to write as series of numbers and functions down on the piece of paper. To Nurse Graham he just said without looking up, "You can get on with the new dressing, and whatever paperwork needs doing to get me out of here as quickly as possible. Oh, you can bring me my clothes back now."

The consultant and the nurse exchanged a slightly bemused look, but got on with their jobs.

oOo

The taxi that delivered Sherlock back to Musgrave Hall took a different path- heading south from Gloucester through Tuffley and then taking small single track country lanes to Painswick and then onto Musgrave. "You know the area, then?" Less a question, more a comment from Sherlock to the taxi driver.

"Yeah- I was born in Pitchcombe. Not much need for taxis out in the sticks. They say follow the money, so I did; got a job in Gloucester."

Sherlock decided to do a little investigating. "What've you heard about the Wessex Cup; got any tips?"

"Hah!" The taxi driver was full of local gossip and happy to share it. "Desborough is getting good odds as second favourite, but they may shorten soon. Rrumours are flying about that something's up with the favourite, Highwood Blaze. Capleton must figure it's their year. Already had two horses on the list; I hear they've added a third- a dark horse nobody's heard of before. Brought it over from Ireland my dad says. Hot stuff, if the scouts who've been watching the yard are to be believed. Great long odds if you want to take a punt."

"What's his name?"

"Some weird Irish name, sounds like Blofelt- you know, the James bond villain?" Sherlock made a mental note.

When they arrived, it was after 4 o'clock. Brunton came out of the Hall to meet the taxi. As he opened the back door of the car, Sherlock clambered out a little awkwardly, ignoring the hand offered to help him out. The butler smiled. "A pleasure to see you, Mister Holmes, and looking much better, may I say, than you did when last I saw you."

"Sorry, Brunton, can you pay him? I don't have my wallet on me- must have forgotten it in the rush last night."

Brunton nodded, as the consulting detective went up the stairs and into the Hall.

"John? _JOHN!_"

Watson came rushing out of the Library at the shouts. "Sherlock, you okay?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Have you got the stuff that Pierson left?"

"Better than that, Mister Holmes. You've got me, too." The tall policeman came out of the Library with Reginald Musgrave behind him.

Sherlock smiled. "Good, the more the merrier. Musgrave, I'll need to borrow one of your footmen, too. I need some extra pairs of arms and legs to make this work. Have you got a printer? I need my phone and laptop, and I will print off enough maps to go around." This was delivered at almost manic speed, and he started quickly up the stairs towards his bedroom where his computer was.

John intervened. "Hold on, Sherlock. Just…slow down a minute, will you? What did the consultant say? You shouldn't be rushing about."

Behind him, Reginald nodded. "Can't have you making that injury worse. Must hurt like the devil."

For a moment, Sherlock looked perplexed, as if he didn't understand.

John prompted him, quietly, "your arm, Sherlock. You know, the one in the sling?"

The tall brunet just snorted, "Irrelevant. Come on, we have a case to solve!" He was off up the stairs before John had a chance to respond. The doctor worried- was Sherlock's case focus so intense in order to avoid thinking about something else?

oOo

Reginald was still muttering about "no such thing as buried treasure", when Sherlock handed out the maps to the four other men standing on the steps down from the back of the Hall. The late afternoon sun was beginning to sink closer to the ridges of the hills surrounding the Hall. "Right- all of you come with me. Pierson, you bring the kit. We need to hurry"

Then he was off, with the others in tow. Detective Inspector Pierson carried the long slim canvas bag with a shoulder strap. Sherlock started barking orders: "Brunton- you're at the place marked A; Musgrave, you're B and Smythe, you're C. Each of the marks is where old elm trees were felled in the 1970s. They were three of ten elms planted in a line parallel to the main part of the house, about one hundred feet from the side of the Hall. I've narrowed it down mathematically to one of these three, but we don't know which one is the one mentioned in the ritual because it doesn't give the exact date in June, nor the time. That's what we have to figure out first."

Sherlock walked to the old oak at the start of the footpath to the stables and asked Pierson "set up the first one". Pierson pulled out a black tube about a foot in length, then a collapsible tripod with a socket at the top end, into which he clipped the black tube. _OH_. John suddenly realised why the strange apparatus looked familiar- focusable forensic lasers, used to track bullet paths. What on earth was Sherlock doing?

While this was going on, Sherlock was eyeing the sun as it sank toward the ridge and then looked back across the lawn where the oak's shadow was visible. "Observe, John. The shadow is lengthening, as the sun sinks. Quickly now- we need to hurry if we are to catch it at exactly the right moment."

"Ready sir." The laser was pointed straight up beside the trunk. Sherlock called out to the three men standing on their marks. "Can you see the red laser beam at the top of the oak?" John heard the shouts of yes from the men.

Sherlock shouted again. "Tell me when the beam is exactly level with the top of the tree." He nodded to Pierson, who began to thumb a little wheel on the side of the laser, which presumably shortened the beam. John asked the obvious question: "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Getting an exact height for the oak, John; isn't that obvious?"

There was a shout from Brunton, "_Now!"_

Pierson peered at a little digital display on the side of the laser. "Twenty point four two two metres, Holmes." Sherlock shook his head. "The 17th century dealt in feet, Pierson, not meters. That's 67 feet tall."

He unclipped the laser from the tripod and aligned himself with the lengthening shadow. The red beam shot straight towards Brunton. "And that's our elm." He strode off. Over his shoulder, he called out" Come on, Pierson; that laser will be needed again."

When he got to Brunton, he called Musgrave and Smythe over. By the time the men had joined him, Sherlock had his phone out and seemed to be looking from it to the tree and back again. John peered over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"Compass app."

"What happens now?"

"We wait for the shadow to be at its longest length- which is in about six minutes, if I have calculated correctly. Pierson, go follow the shadow. When the sun goes below the ridge the shadow should be at its longest. That together with the oak's height will confirm for certain that this is the elm. and give us the next figure we need."

It felt longer than six minutes, but the Pierson called out, and used the laser to measure the exact distance to the oak. "Twenty eight point six five one." Sherlock's smile confirmed he was happy; "That's ninety four feet in old money."

"Bring the laser, leave it on to that length, Pierson." Aligning himself with the shadow of the oak, Sherlock walked from the phantom elm with the laser light on his back. Pierson shouted "stop!" when he'd reached 94 feet. Sherlock was only a half dozen paces in front of the side of the Hall.

The consulting detective consulted his phone and took ten measured strides, shorter than his usual. "North by ten and by ten- that's sixty feet" He walked past the end of the wing of the house stopped and turned to his right. "Now five by five east." The men started after him as Sherlock disappeared around the corner of the building. When John caught up with him, the consulting detective was looking at his phone again with a smirk, and then up at the window about three feet in front of them.

Musgrave looked perplexed. "I don't get it- _inside_?"

"Yes, indeed; just as I thought. Pierson, set up the laser again. Point it in that window. The rest of you gentlemen can accompany me inside."

As Sherlock led the men back around to the front of the house and inside, he could hardly keep the glee from his voice. "Musgrave, for all these years, your treasure hunters have been looking in the wrong place- and for the wrong thing. I only wish I could have met Stryker. He was quite clever to have figured it out!"

In the entrance hall, Reginald grabbed Sherlock's right arm and stopped him. "Stryker?! Are you saying he actually _found_ the Musgrave treasure? Is that why he was killed?"

Sherlock shook off his hand, with an offended look. "He found it. But, that's not why he died. Just wait- I will show you."

He strode off down the corridor, past the Library. Ahead, John could see the red beam of the laser. Sherlock put his hand up to interrupt the beam. "What's the distance, Pierson?"

"Twelve feet, sir" came the answer through the window. Sherlock turned around and looked at the door of the Silver Room. "I assume, Brunton, that you still have the key on your person? Because six feet inside that room is the treasure."


	19. Chapter 19

**Musgrave Blaze**

**Chapter Nineteen**

* * *

Brunton unlocked the door to the Silver Room, and Sherlock led the way in. Nothing had changed from the last time John was in the room, three days ago. The free standing cabinet was still gaping open at the bottom, the panel removed to one side, the cut wires exposed.

Sherlock turned to the footman. "Smythe, you can go get Pierson- he isn't needed out there anymore."

Reginald's face showed his scepticism. "Holmes, there is absolutely nothing in this room that shouldn't be here; the problem is that there should be something – the Cup- that isn't here. Why are you playing with old wive's tales? Did that fall addle your brain as well as break a bone?"

What little patience Sherlock might have had snapped. "Perhaps stupidity is the result of aristocratic inbreeding, or maybe you've just lost too many brain cells to your winecellar, Musgrave. It's here, you just have to finish the riddle. "_How was it stepped?...North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one…" _The tall man gestured to the centre of the room, the open cabinet, and then pointed down. "…_**and so under**__." _

John realised what Sherlock meant before the other three men did. "Underground, under the stone floor. The cupboard is…what, on top of something? A hatch?"

Sherlock raised his right hand in acclamation and looked annoyed at the left, imprisoned in the sling. "I'd applaud if I could, John. At last, someone here has got two brain cells to rub together." The sarcasm was thickly spread. "Now all we have to do is move it aside."

Brunton looked askance. "The cupboard is bolted to the stone floor. I watched them install it. It can't be moved."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, shaking his head in dismay at the comment. "Use your head! If the cabinet is bolted to the stone, then _the whole stone can be moved_. Look around in the cabinets here, I'm sure we will find the right tool." The other men looked at the silver in the wall cupboards. John went over to one. "Sherlock, what are we looking for?"

There was a sigh. "Isn't it obvious, John? Something that is very thin, thin enough to fit into the grouting space between the stones. Curved, so it can go under it, and strong enough to be able to pry the stone up. Not silver, that's for sure."

Silence fell as the four men began to scrutinise the contents of the cabinets. Pierson came in, with Smythe behind him. He raised his eyebrows at Reginald, a silent query about what was going on. "If you ask me, Detective Inspector, we are on a Holmsian wild goose chase."

John waited for the acerbic riposte from Sherlock, but instead got a shouted "AHA!", as the tall man went down onto his knees, reaching up behind the chimney breast and pulling something out. With his balance affected by the sling, he struggled a bit to return to his feet, but when he did, he had two thin pieces of metal in his right hand. "Take one, John, and Pierson, you take the other. Slide it along the grouting between the stones. You will find a gap on either side of the cabinet that has been filled in with something that looks like grout but isn't." He was scrutinising the stonework carefully. "Probably toothpaste. it's what I would use."

The two men followed the detective's instructions. Brunton's slipped through first. John then moved his piece of metal opposite where Brunton's had gone under the stone, and his broke through, too.

"Slip the metal in half way, gentlemen. Then lever it up. You should find the leverage is adequate to move the stone, even with the cabinet on it."

And, it worked, just like he said it would. The stone shifted, a gap formed, and the two men then slid the metal pieces to the left side of the stone. The weight of the trophy cabinet actually made it easier, pulling the stone up with it as the weight pulled it over to a forty five degree angle. Smythe helped John and Pierson slide the whole thing over and then righted it. Where it had been was now a large dark hole, almost a half meter in width. Sherlock shot Reginald a "so there" look.

"Bloody hell, Holmes, what's down there?"

"_He who is gone_", Sherlock replied, in a stentorian tone, quoting the line from the Ritual. The smirk was broadening. He turned to the butler. "A ladder and a couple of good strong torches, Brunton. And then we will see who has been here before us."

When Brunton returned with the ladder, and Smythe with three torches, Pierson was down on the floor, with his head hanging over the edge of the abyss, trying to peer into the darkness. He was explaining to Reginald, "A room of some sort. I can just make out the earth floor- probably about ten feet down. Too dark to see anything else." He was using the light from his mobile phone as a makeshift torch.

Brunton put the ladder down the side of the hole, while Smythe tried to hand Sherlock a torch. The brunet shook his head. "_Who shall have it_?" again quoting from the Ritual. "Not me, not with this wretched arm, can't hang onto the ladder. John, down you go. Anyway, I already know what's down there."

John looked at him incredulously. "How is that even remotely possible?"

"Just go. And take some photos with your phone of the room- it has historical value."

John went first, followed by Reginald, and then Pierson. Sherlock had turned away from the hole, and was looking at the silver horse trophies in the cabinets.

There was a "Bloody hell- it's a proper room, this" from Reginald. Smythe and Brunton standing by the ladder saw a number of flashes, presumably from a phone camera. Then, John called up, "Sherlock? We've found two bags. One's old, in tatters. The other looks new- black cloth, bigger." Then Pierson's voice- "Mind, sirs, don't touch- could be evidence!"

The consulting detective turned away from the cabinets and back to the gaping hole in the floor. "Just take a photo with your phone, Pierson. Leave the old bag- an archaeologist will need to be involved. Unless I missed something, Musgrave, it's the answer to that other part of the riddle "_He who will come_"is none other than King Charles. This bolt hole is most likely to have been used to hide him when he fled Oxford in April 1646. He escaped westward- and probably spent a few nights down there in hiding, before he turned north and eventually surrendered to the Scottish army. That old bag is quite likely to have held papers. Important papers held by your ancestors _'For the sake of the trust'_ they had in the Restoration of the Monarchy. Of course, by hiding the fugitive they put at risk…"

"_All that is ours_" came the reply from the darkness below. Musgrave was laughing. "My God, Holmes- leave it to you to suss out our family secrets that have been buried for centuries."

Sherlock knelt beside the hole. "John, the new bag is what you want. Be careful; it will be heavy."

"Ooof. You're right Sherlock." John's voice. Then as he struggled up the ladder, he asked Brunton, "Take this; it weighs a ton." The butler realised what it was from the feel, right through the black velvet bag. His wide eyes caught Sherlock's across the hole in the floor. Surprise, then delight. He carried the prize over to the trophy cabinet and slipped the bag and its contents into the empty space inside.

Reginald and Pierson followed John up the ladder. The doctor looked from the bag to Sherlock and then back again. "Is it what I think it is?"

Sherlock's grin was infectious. "Do the honours, Brunton."

The butler pulled the black cloth bag down around the sides of a gleaming silver trophy- the Wessex Cup had been returned to its rightful place.

"Holmes, you're crazy, a genius but crazy." Reginald Musgrave's usual aristocratic nonchalance was gone and in its place was unbridled amazement. "How the hell did you know that it was down in a place no one else even knew existed?"

"Ah, but someone did. Stryker knew. He figured it out. _'Who shall have it…He who will come._' Well, Stryker came. Unfortunately for him, what he found in that old bag down there isn't worth anything now. Well, I say that, but it isn't strictly true. It's a worth a lot in terms of historical value, and I suspect you will find that a lot of historians will be very interested in its contents. But it wasn't the buried treasure he needed to buy Highwood Blaze. So, in desperation, he nicked the cup and stashed it down there. It wasn't pre-meditated. Probably just thought he might be able to find a buyer. But then he was killed and he didn't get the chance."

Both Musgrave and Pierson were listening to this stream of deduction with amazement. John knew the feeling. He was more used to Sherlock's talents, but this time, the doctor's own reaction was linked to the realisation that Sherlock had solved the case despite the distraction of his injury, the melt-down, the re-appearance of long suppressed traumatic memories. _This is what he does. This is what holds him together, keeps all that…shit locked up in a place where it cannot hurt him. _He had to say it, "That…was amazing."

Sherlock just shrugged. "No, not really. This was the easy bit. It is the result of a good imagination. Figuring out the rest is what took longer."

Musgrave just laughed incredulously. "The rest? Good Lord, Holmes. What more is there? Are you saying you can magic Blaze back out of the darkness, too?"

An enigmatic smile formed on the consulting detective's face. "You'll have the answer to that question in good time. Right now, I have to admit that I am feeling a little tired- the after-effects of that wretched anaesthesia. Pierson- I'll need you to be on stand-bye in the morning, and when I give you the word of where to meet up, bring Fitzroy Simpson with you. We need him for another kind of treasure hunt tomorrow."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

* * *

Reginald decided that recovering the Wessex Cup warranted a proper celebration, so he corralled John and Sherlock into the Library next door to the Silver Room and sent Brunton off for "something suitable" from the wine cellar. Musgrave decided he had to telephone the Countess immediately- told them not to move while he gave her the good news. John welcomed the chance to sit, and not just for his own sake. From the moment Sherlock's taxi had arrived, the man had been in constant motion, driven forward by the adrenaline of case work. Now that the thrill of discovery in the Silver Room had abated, the tall man slumped back in the wing chair beside the unlit fireplace and closed his eyes.

Over in the sofa, John eyed him. "I will bet that the consultant would not have approved of your afternoon's activities as light exercise, Sherlock. Why don't I give Musgrave your apologies? Just go upstairs and lie down for a while. You look exhausted."

A pair of grey-green eyes snapped open and stared at John. "Apologies? Whatever do you think I have to apologise for now, John?"

"It's a figure of speech, Sherlock. I'm not criticising you. I meant that it is perfectly acceptable to recognise that you are recovering from surgery, and I'm happy to tell Musgrave that on your behalf. Did the hospital write a script for some pain medication?"

The tall man just waved his right hand in dismissal. "Ibuprofen. Yes, on the way here I got the taxi to stop at a chemist so I could fill it. But, ibuprofen is useless; NSAIDs don't work with me. It doesn't matter. I'm just underperforming because the anaesthesia hasn't entirely left my system yet. It always lingers and makes the brain work slow down. Irritating." He sounded disgusted with himself.

"Well, forgive me if I disagree, that display next door was nothing short of scintillating. If that's what you do when you are 'slowed down', then it's worrying what you expect of yourself when you are firing on all cylinders."

That earned him a glare. "My brain is _not_ analogous to the internal combustion engine of a motor car, John. Something so _old fashioned and underpowered _ is just not an adequate metaphor."

John tried to placate his friend's ego, which somehow had been bruised by the idea of needing to rest. He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry- would rocket engine be better?"

"Nooo. Not in the slightest. Rocket fuel is just a lot of combustion and no finess." He tapped the side of his head. "Up here is a quad core processor, capable of dealing with multitasking and computation as fast as neurons can fire, John. The anaesthesia is like...like a power brown out. Less energy gets to the brain cells, and processing just slows down. Most annoying."

"Sherlock, this is your doctor speaking. Take the computer offline. Upstairs, pull the plug, don't reboot, give the circuits a rest. You push yourself too hard."

Sherlock did not reply. John worried about that. Sherlock _always_ replied. _What's he afraid of? If he stops focussing on the case, will he have to deal with the memories he has been trying to suppress for so long? _John became aware again of the elephant sitting in the corner of the room.

But any chance of addressing that disappeared when Brunton came into the room, carrying a silver salver in one hand, with three champagne flutes, and an ice bucket with a champagne bottle in it. He placed it on the round table, and then said quietly, "I know that you generally decline wine, sir, but according to what I could find when I googled you, Mr Holmes, I think you will be willing to try a Moet & Chandon Champagne Cuvee Dom Perignon 1979."

Sherlock's eyes opened. "That might be interesting to taste, although I don't think I could manage a full glass, given the recent general anaesthetic."

Musgrave arrived as Sherlock was speaking. He glanced at the bottle in the ice bucket. "Well done, Brunton. Just the thing. You're a 1979 birthday boy, aren't you Holmes? I seem to remember that you went to Trinity when you were eighteen, when I was in my second year. Alas, 1978 was a total disaster for the champagne vintage. Happy to drink to your good health with a '79." Brunton popped the cork, and started to pour the three glasses.

He took the tray around to Sherlock, who opened his eyes and pulled a glass from the salver. John followed suit, and Reginald raised the third glass. "The Countess sends her congratulations, Holmes, and her hopes that you are as successful tomorrow as you have been for us today. Here's to you."

Sherlock did not acknowedge the toast, and not for the first time, John wondered if the pressure to be 'successful' was something that Sherlock would even acknowledge. Holmes was concentrating on the biscuit coloured wine, the tiny lines of bubbles that were making their way from the bottom of the flute to the top. John found himself worrying. As much as he knew the detective thrived on solving cases, he also knew that Sherlock didn't do it for the accolades, the public recognition, or the grateful thanks of clients like Reginald Musgrave and the Countess of Southrop. And the impossible standards that the man set for himself drove him to ignore not just his bodily needs, but his mental stability, as well. Those nine faxed pages sat in the back of John's mind now. How much of the total fixation that Sherlock gave to _The Work_ was because he needed to focus on something other than what had happened to him in the past?

The doctor watched his friend take a mouthful of the wine, swirl it about in his mouth, breath in gently to oxygenate the wine, drawing out all the complexities of a great vintage, the toasty flavours of a wine with over thirty years of bottle age. John wondered if Sherlock's hypersensitivity made him even more conscious of a great wine's quality.

Three mouthfuls later, Sherlock put his half empty flute on the table beside his chair, and got to his feet. "Thank you, Musgrave. That was delicious. I'm off upstairs to bed. I will see you tomorrow morning."

"Sherlock, wait. You do need to eat something." John looked over at Reginald.

"Of course, I understand, old boy. You must be knackered. I'll have cook send up a tray. Sleep well. You deserve it."

oOo

John didn't think he'd get much sleep that night. When he went up after dinner to check on Sherlock, he found the detective stretched out on the bed sound asleep, fully clothed, but shoes off. Flat on his back, with the sling adjusted to raise the wrist higher up his chest, and straps adjsted to keep it from moving much during the night, he'd put two pillows on either side of him, to stop him trying to turn on his side in his sleep. _He's done this before._ The doctor sighed at the barely touched plate of food on the tray, but took it outside and placed it on a hall table. He turned off the light in the room, leaving the door into the shared bathroom ajar. He switched on a small light over the basin; it would be enough to give his friend the means to find the loo if he needed it in the night. And John left his door open too, so that if Sherlock did get up, then John would probably hear it. He got undressed, crawled into bed and turned out the lights, relying on a clip-on book light to read from one of the volumes he'd brought up from the Library. _Noble Brutes: How Eastern Horses Transformed English Culture_ by Donna Landrey. In the introduction, John read that "eventing was primarily devised to produce a multi-dextrous horse and rider, obedient, athletic and reliable enough to perform vital message-carrying in war." That raised a smile at first that then faded. Sherlock's passion for the sport had led him into a battlefield of his own. When would the memories of it re-surface again?

Sitting there in the dark, lit only by the tiny book light, John had an epiphany- a moment of realisation about Sherlock. For the past two years, he had believed his friend's eccentricities and his self destructive behaviour were due in large part to his being on the Spectrum. And yet, when he did a mental roll call of Sherlockian behaviours- agitation, anxiety, an almost obsessive determination to be busy _("BORED!"_), followed by periods of total turpor and depression, his absorption in minute detail combined with willful 'deletion' of other information, his emotional blindness, his rejection of sentiment. His irritability, inability to sleep properly, his hyperalertness. _My God, it's a list of almost every symptom of PTSD._ The need to keep busy on case work might be more in fear of having too much time and opportunity to think about things that he didn't want to remember.

It made him realise that Sherlock's own experience of PTSD might well have been one of the reasons he was so easily able to deduce the condition in John, in their first meeting at the St Barts lab.

The difference was, John had medical treatment for the trauma. He had therapy. He had support. Not that it did all that much good. But, as a medical professional, he at least knew that it wasn't his_ fault._ He wondered what a fifteen year old without any support would make of the flashbacks, the disrupted sleep, the panic attacks, the anxiety, the self-loathing and depression. John found coping with these things as an adult was hard enough, until he had found the distractions of a life lived in adrenaline-fuelled crime solving. The thought made him realise that he and Sherlock were not so different after all. _Give or take a few million brain cells._ The younger man had probably figured it out years ago that case work was his salvation. Could Sherlock's _"Want some more?" _ on John's first night at the flat be his recognition of a kindred spirit- one person desperately seeking distration speaking to another person he deduced as driven by the same need?

John read the same paragraph three times before he realised that he was fighting a losing battle against sleep. He put the book down and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he should try to sleep. Hindsight is an odd thing. As a medical professional, he'd re-read all the symptoms and treatments for PTSD when it had been diagnosed for him- yet knowledge had brought him no personal relief. It was easier to see it in others, yet he'd missed it in Sherlock. Now that he knew about the assault and the stable fire, so much of Sherlock's subsequent behaviour just slotted into place. It made his heart ache that his friend might have been carrying around this trauma and the PTSD for decades with everyone just assuming that this was what Sherlock was. He could not imagine the psychologial effects of being so alone, for so long, with such a secret.

As he felt his body start to drop off to sleep, John Watson made a decision- he would not, he could not let Sherlock continue to deny what had happened. Somehow, he was going to have to find a way to help his friend deal with it. He was not prepared to be part of the conspiracy of silence that had let Sherlock down in the past.

oOo

Ninety miles away, sitting in his study at the South Eaton Place townhouse, at almost the exact same moment, Mycroft Holmes put down his glass of scotch single malt and came to the same conclusion. He made a mental note to call Doctor Esther Cohen in the morning and discuss what revelations had come to light in Gloucestershire. This time, he vowed that he would be there for his brother- even though he knew that Sherlock would fight him tooth and nail, denying that there was anything the matter.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty One**

* * *

When John woke up the next morning, the first thing he heard was an annoyed baritone "John!" He was out of bed and through the shared bathroom in a moment. What he saw in Sherlock's bedroom made him stifle a giggle. Sherlock had obviously attempted to change into a clean shirt- managed to get the right arm through the sleeve but was now hopelessly tangled up.

"John?" Sherlock's head was inside the shirt, which he had partially buttoned before trying to pull it over his head. Logical, given he only had one hand to do the buttons, but now he was effectively trapped.

"Let me help." John came over and tried to pull the shirt down over the dark curls. "Just keep your left arm in your lap for the minute." The doctor undid three buttons and pulled the shirt so Sherlock's head popped free. The face that emerged looked extremely cross.

"I know. Buttons are the invention of the devil, when you can't use your arm properly. Took me months of physical therapy on my shoulder before I could get dressed on my own in a button down. I was stuck in baggy t shirts for ages." The doctor kept his tone light, going for humour to defuse the frustration. He unbottoned the rest of the shirt, told Sherlock to remove his right arm from the sleeve. "You need to start with the left one. Can you manage to get your arm out of the sling?" There was a grimace of pain, but Sherlock did it. John folded up the left unbuttoned sleeve and guided it over the back splint. Once the bandaged and splinted arm was through, he pushed the sleeve above Sherlock's elbow, and got the sling back on. "Now the right arm."

"This is...tedious, inconvenient, a nuisance. I _hate_ being so impaired!"

"It won't last that long. You'll be in a short plastic cast soon enough and starting on physio, then you can use your fingers. In fact, it will be good for you to do to do so. How's the pain?"

Sherlock just sighed. "It doesn't matter, once I get dressed and back to work. We have things to do, John!"

"Well, nothing is going to happen before you have breakfast."

He groaned. "How many times do I have to repeat myself to get through to that tiny brain of yours? Food slows me down."

"Well, I can guarantee you that Reginald won't go anywhere unless he's had breakfast, so you might as well use the time to refuel the transport."

Sherlock just muttered something about wasting yet more time watching someone else's waist expand from overeating. He levered himself off the bed and wandered into the bath room barefoot. As John walked by the basin on his way back to his own bedroom, he watched Sherlock brushing his teeth. "You're just lucky it's not your dominant hand. I was totally useless. Bloody nurse had to brush my teeth for me for the first two weeks." John couldn't quite decipher the words that were snarked around the toothbrush.

When he was dressed he went back to Sherlock's room and stood in the doorway watching the detective trying to tie his shoelace with one hand. It didn't work, and he could see Sherlock's frustration growing. He walked over and did it for his friend, enduring the glower. "Just get over it, Sherloock; it won't kill you to accept help every once in a while." As soon as the second shoe's bow was tied, the consulting detective was on his feet, and moving toward the door.

In the dining room where breakfast was being served, John found not only Reginald, but also Colonel Ross.

"Ah, Mister Holmes. I am so pleased to see you back from the hospital; I was so sorry to hear about you breaking your wrist. At least it wasn't Alpha's fault after Simon's broken femur, it would be sad if he got a reputation as a dangerous horse. Mister Musgrave asked me up for breakfast to tell me the details about how you found the Wessex Cup. It's just amazing." The retired army man shook his head in wonderment.

John fixed himself a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and took it to the table. He watched as Sherlock paced by the windows overlooking the lawn, ignoring the men in the room. The doctor put his own plate down and then returned to the side-board, lifting another one of the silver domes. _Yes, this will do_. He put three large spoonfuls of salmon kedgeree onto the plate and brought it to the place beside his own food, along with a cup of black coffee with two sugars.

He then put himself squarely in the way of a pacing detective. "Sherlock, sit down and eat." The taller man stopped and looked down at John, with an annoyed expression. They could both hear Musgrave and Ross talking in the background at the other end of the table; the Colonel was showing him something in the local newspaper. Quietly, so that neither of the others in the room would hear, John said, "if you don't eat something, then I'll pull doctor rank and confine you to the house. I am sure that whatever plans you have for solving the rest of the case involve leaving the Hall, but if you are awkward about this, then you will leave me no choice."

"You wouldn't." This was breathed very quietly.

"No breakfast, no case. You don't want to risk it, do you? I'll tell Musgrave and Ross you need to take a day off to recuperate. I will _win_ on this one."

Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes briefly, and then turned to the table. If he flung himself in the chair a little more theatrically than normal, John chose to ignore it as he took his own seat and tucked into his food. Musgrave then slid the newspaper along the wooden table. "Take a look at this article. Sounds like someone's been suggesting that there may be a problem with Highwood Blaze." John scanned the article, and then read a bit out loud for Sherlock's benefit. _"Meanwhile, local witnesses report that Highwood Blaze from Musgrave Hall has not been seen for nearly a week. Could this be gamesmanship by the Countess of Southrop, who could benefit if the favourite's betting odds were to lengthen a little? Attempts to get an update from the trainer were batted away yesterday, when Colonel Ross refused to confirm or deny anything about the horse's preparations for the Wessex Cup." _

Sherlock finished chewing a mouthful before responding. "Ross, have you heard anything about the latest horse to be entered for the event? An Irish horse, but with some connection to Capleton Yard."

"Where did you hear that, Holmes?" The Colonel looked surprised.

"Yesterday afternoon, in the taxi on the way back here." Sherlock took another bite.

Musgrave nodded over his full English breakfast, fork poised over the second fried egg. "It's true. Signed up two days ago. Horse's name is a funny one- Ibhfolach- Gaelic, I think."

"Interesting name." Sherlock's smirk blossomed into a bigger smile, as he attacked the rest of the saffron rice on his plate and finished it off as quickly as he could chew. The clock on the mantlepiece above the fireplace struck nine.

As soon as he threw down the last bit of his coffee, Sherlock was on his feet again. "Musgrave, call Pierson and get him to meet us at Capleton at 9.30. He's to bring Fitzroy Simpson with him. The four of us can get there in one of your Landrovers. What we are looking for might need an off-road 4x4."

oOo

Silas Brown was not amused to see a Landrover with the Musgrave crest on it drive into the parking area by the stable block, but his frown seemed directed more at the police car that followed it into the next space. As soon as he laid eyes on Musgrave getting out of the front seat, the elderly man strode out from the gate with a riding crop swinging in his hand.

"You! What the devil do you want here?" His manner was that of an overbearing and self-important bully.

Sherlock was the one who answered. "Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir" in his most charming of tones. John was always startled when Sherlock turned on the charm- one of his 'disguises'.

"I've no time to talk to you, whoever you are, or anyone else of you lot. I have horses to prepare for the Cup."

Detective Inspector Pierson got out of the police car, and Fitzroy Simpson followed him over to where the men were standing. The man that the police had declared to be the prime suspect was well dressed, and did not look the sort who would be a seller of agricultural feeds. Brown looked at Simpson and snarled, "You again?! I've already had the police arrest you for loitering, get off my property!"

The DI stood his ground. "I've brought him here at the request of Mister Holmes, investigating a murder."

"Murder?Who?" The red-faced bluster vanished.

Colonel Ross answered smoothly, "my trainer, Bill Stryker was found dead four days ago, murdered in the High Wood."

Brown's face showed first his surprise. "You think this man killed Stryker?" his incredulity showed. "What the hell does that have to do with me? Or with Capleton?" Then, as the implications of the trainer's death started to penetrate his mind, a tiny smile. John wondered if he might have just decided that his own horses' chances at winning had just improved.

"We are here to determine just that, Mister Brown." Sherlock turned away from the men and made his way straight through the arch into the stable yard. Then he ground to a halt. John came up to him and took a good look at the consulting detective who seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then a moment later, that forensic scrutiny came back on line and he watched Sherlock take a good hard look at the area.

Capleton was an older establishment than Musgrave's equestrian facility. This was a concrete quadrangle, surrounded on three sides by horse stalls, whose fronts were protected by a wide roof. The fourth side of the square was a two storied building. John could see the ground floor was taken up by an office, and storage rooms, again the wide roof projected. It had the feel of a cathedral cloister.

John and the others followed Sherlock, whose eyes were roving over the whole quadrangle.

"Simpson, tell me where you picked up the horseshoe, and why you did it."

Fitzroy gestured over to the side of the quadrangle where the offices were. In a well educated and cultured voice, he said "over there, a pile of used shoes. Clearly, a ferrier had been at work, the horses would be tied by the bridle to a hook on the wall. I noticed when I went to the office to enquire if they needed any grain."

Silas Brown snapped, "Yes, I sent you away. You, sir, are no grain merchant. And I told you that if I saw you again on Capleton property, I'd send my dogs after you!"

The men walked over to the place that Simpson pointed out. True enough, there was a pile of old horseshoes lying there- perhaps a dozen or more. Sherlock bent to examine them, but stood up again shortly, clearly disappointed that something he wanted to find wasn't there.

"So, why did you pick up _that_ particular shoe and put it in your pocket?"

"Well I could see that it was different. It was a bit like the others, but it had different studs from the rest and also looked newer than most of the others."

The man now hesitated. "As to why, well, um... it pays to notice when an eventer has been re-shod, particularly if the shoes being replaced are new. It could be sign of a hoof infection, or lameness. I'm paid to notice that sort of thing. So, I pocketed it when the Yard boy wasn't looking."

"Interesting. How many shoes had the different studs and looked new?"

"There were three in the pile. I took one, but the other two are not there now."

"_VERY_ interesting."

The four other men's faces showed differing degrees of confusion at this statement.

"Detective Inspector Pierson, the bulk of your case against Mister Simpson hinges on the idea that he picked up Blaze's missing shoe at the scene of the crime. Have you ever been to High Wood, Mister Simpson?"

The man shook his head. "I'm not from this area, wouldn't have a clue even where it is. I always thought it was just the name of the old Musgrave stallion."

"Well, I've never believed that you were a viable suspect, so you can relax."

Brown frowned. "I am not following this at all. What has a murderer got to do with a horseshoe?"

Sherlock smirked. "Nothing at all, Mister Brown, because there never was a murderer."

Now it was Colonel Ross who intervened. "Not a murderer? Holmes, I saw the man's head. So did Pierson, here. You've seen the autopsy reports. Tell him, Doctor Watson. The whole base of the skull, at the back- the top of the neck was bashed in, and he had a knife wound on his thigh that had bled extensively. What could that be other than murder?"

Sherlock had raised his right hand to his chest, and then frowned at his left hand in the sling. John knew that Sherlock wanted to bring the two hands together, touching fingertips together as if in prayer, because he was deep in deductive mode. Then suddenly, the consulting detective burst into action again. "I can demonstrate _exactly_ what I mean, gentlemen, and we don't have to go to the actual crime scene to do it."

He walked over to the post that was holding up the roof, and gestured to it. "Imagine this is the cypress hedge at the bottom of High Wood basin. Ross, you can take the role of Stryker. You arrive at a certain point in the hedge, possibly identified with a handkerchief. Pierson, was there a handkerchief in the pockets when you examined the body?"

The DI cautiously replied, "Yes, Mister Holmes, but then that was hardly suspicious. Most of us here probably do, too."

Sherlock ignored that. "Ross, do the role play. You know the drill, you tied up Charlie the same way- by the reins to the hedge. Think of that hook as if it were the branches we found all scraped and ragged from where a horse had pulled against the tied reins." The consulting detective gestured to Colonel Ross, willing him to take the steps needed to position himself at the imaginary hedge. A little reluctantly, the man obliged.

"Right. What do we know for certain as a result of finding the treasure last night?" Sherlock asked this of Reginald, who just looked totally blank.

Oh, for God's sake, _THINK_!" When nothing came forth, Sherlock rolled his eyes histrionically and said, "Stryker had an _accomplice_! There were _TWO_ metal pieces and it took _both_ John and Pierson to move the stone and the cabinet. So, it was evident and we found the evidence on the other side of the hedge that Stryker was not alone."

Now it was Pierson's voice that interjected. "But, from what Colonel Ross has told me this morning, you found footprints that must have been from the murderer on the other side of the fence. Yet here were no signs of anyone else at the crime scene, apart from Ned Hunter, who discovered the body. Are you saying Hunter was the accomplice or that he was the murderer, or...or both?"

Sherlock just laughed out loud. "No, of course not- that's ridiculous! But _someone_ was on the other side of the hedge, someone who had lifted the fences, using the poles, someone who had the horsebox at the other side of the camp, near the road, so the horse could be collected. John, you will be our mystery _accomplice._ Please, all of you, just stop thinking about a murderer for the moment. Stand in the hedge, John, the way I was when Ross brought Charlie through."

John moved into position. Sherlock came in toward him, but stayed about three feet to left side of John and stopped at the edge of the roof- the imaginary hedge. "I'm Blaze. I'm tied by the reins and I don't like it. Not one bit." He smirked at the word. "Every time I toss my head or pull, the bit hurts my mouth. Styrker comes around and stands on my side of the hedge level with the accomplice." He shooed Ross into position, facing John. "Then the two of you start pulling the branches aside to expose the space between the two trunks that we found. This gets me even more anxious and I start to panic, pulling harder on the reins, which hurts my mouth even more. Horses are prey animals- they run when they get scared or hurt." As soon as he said this, John watched as Sherlock went silent. Still. As if the energy of solving the case had been sucked right out of him. _Oh no- has he just triggered a flashback?_

Sherlock closed his eyes, took three deep, slow breaths, and seemed to catch a hold of himself again. He backed up a bit from the imaginary hedge and spun about. "Blaze works himself up into a right state, and in the thrashing about, he loses one of his back shoes. Stryker realises the horse is about to bolt and goes to get the reins off the branch. The horse is pulling so tight, he can't work the leather free. So, he pulls his pocket knife out and cuts the rein."

He gestured to Ross. "Lead me over to the gap in the hedge." Ross went thought the motions and Sherlock followed until he was level with the hedge, and Ross was standing directly in front of John, but facing Sherlock.

"Now you try to lead me in, and I refuse. You give the reins to ...the accomplice, and take off your jacket."

Pierson interjected, "The body wasn't wearing a jacket, Mister Holmes."

The consulting detective looked back at the DI. "I know; _fascinating_, isn't it? Ross, he certainly would have left the Yard wearing one, wouldn't he? Rain was forecast." The Colonel nodded but looked even more confused.

John asked the question that was on everyone's mind, "So, what happened to the jacket?"

Sherlock was off again. "Stryker used the knife again. Cut his jacket and then ripped it in half. He shoves the knife back into his pocket in a hurry because he's concentrating on calming Blaze down. The knife blade gets tangled in the handkerchief and doesn't close properly, but he doesn't notice. He needs half the jacket to blindfold the horse and the other half to use the way you and John did with Charlie, like a rump strap at a race course starting gate. But, there's only one of him, not two, so it's _much_ harder to do. "

Sherlock positioned himself again facing John, and gestured Ross to his side and slightly behind him. "Now Blaze starts to move forward, and the accomplice seems to have things under control. The horse's head and front shoulders go through the gap. Ross steps away as the horse moves through the hedge. He sees the thrown shoe, and doesn't want to leave it behind. He goes back to pick it up and just as he starts to bend down..." Now Sherlock pointed where he wanted Ross to stand, behind him. "...Blaze's side gets scraped by one of the smaller branches in the hedge, and he panics. He strikes out with his back hooves, which connect with the back of Stryker's head. It's low enough down that his helmet makes no difference. You know as well as I do, Ross, helmets are only of limited use for that kind of blow."

John could picture it just as Sherlock described. The deductive stream continued. "The trainer goes flying. The base of his skull has been crushed, his neck nearly broken and he is thrown forward by the blow of the hoof. When he lands, the half opened pocket knife in his trouser pocket stabs him in the thigh."

The look on Ross's face showed his shock. Musgrave just muttered, "Poor bugger wouldn't have known what hit him."

Silas Brown had been watching the play acting with increasing annoyance. "Look, whoever you are, Holmes, is it? What on earth does any of this have to do with me? Why are you going through this little charade in _my_ stable yard?"

Sherlock spun around to face the trainer. "That will become clear soon enough, Brown. Just _hold your horses"._ The consulting detective smirked at the play on words.

"Now just wait a bloody minute, you...you aren't accusing _me_ of being this mystery accomplice, are you?" The bluster and bully boy attitude was back in full force.

"No, of course, not. It remains to be seen exactly _what_ your role is, but that too will become clear."

Sherlock took up his position again, facing John. "Now the accomplice realises that Stryker has been hurt. My money goes on that person dropping the reins, and tries to push past the horse's side, which just panics Blaze into going forward, right through the hedge as was the original intention. The accomplice sees the man's head is smashed in, sees the blood on his leg trouser. Probably reaches in the pocket and pulls out the knife, trying to see if that will help, drops it in horror and tries to stop the bleeding. It doesn't matter because the man is already dead. When the realisation of that fact sinks in, the accomplice has to decide what to do- and makes the choice to go through with the plan. Can't move the body, but the shoe is picked up, the torn half of a jacket is taken. And the hedge boughs are pulled back in place." The consulting detective's eyes were half closed, as if envisaging the scene. Then, with renewed intent, he called over his shoulder. "Colonel Ross, would you agree that a blindfolded horse won't run far?"

"No, generally not; they need to see where they are going. As you said, they are prey animals. Blindness would confuse it enough to stop it from running."

"So, the clever accomplice will have been able to collect Blaze and carry through with the rest of the plan, taking him through the military fence in the place we found and then around the enclosure and out to a waiting horsebox." The smile on Sherlock's face was electric. "So, you see, gentlemen, there was no murderer, although technically you can now 'arrest' Blaze for manslaughter. That is, assuming he is where I think he is."


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's note**: an apology for the (OMG count them!) eleven typos and punctuation errors in the previous chapter, which have now been corrected, thanks to SailOnSilverGirl, with apologies to you and many, many thanks to her.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Two**

* * *

The consulting detective now turned to look at the Capleton trainer. "This is where you come in, Mister Brown-it's your cue. Detective Inspector Pierson, please escort him to the stall that has the new Irish horse in it, Ibhfolach." He pronounced the Gaelic name as if he was a native-born Irishman.

Brown looked confused. "Why? Is this some cackhanded scheme to get your eyes on my long shot? I won't have it." He looked ready to refuse. DI Pierson came up to him and used his height to emphasise his point. "Now Mister Brown, you wouldn't want to be facing charges of obstructing a police inquiry, would you? That would scupper the betting on your horses- and might just make it hard to field the winner, don't you think?"

In the end, Brown just shrugged. "Whatever- if it's what you all need to get you off my property and me back to work, then I'll do it. He strode off across the quadrangle, with Pierson in tow.

"John, can you fetch me a bucket of water? There's one over by the pile of horseshoes. I need about two litres of water." John looked at his friend, his question clear in his expression.

"Quickly- I will explain in a minute. If you can find a rag or a sponge over there, so much the better." He closed his eyes again, with his hands beneath his chin. _Back into the mind palace._

John grabbed the bucket and found the tap by the side of the building, filling it with what he guessed was the right amount of water. He snagged a sponge that was lying on the bench against the wall and turned back to the others. He could see a dark coloured horse being taken out of its stall on a lead rope clipped to its bridle. Brown brought it across the quad, with Pierson following alongside. They stopped alongside Musgrave and Ross, who looked at the horse's clean lines with appreciation.

Sherlock must have heard the horse, even though he was standing with his eyes closed, his back to the men. John saw him stiffen, and then duck his head lower so he couldn't possibly see the horse, even with peripheral vision; he kept his head bowed, shoulders suddenly taking a defensive stance. _Uh oh. _John hurried over to his friend, water sloshing out of the bucket in his haste.

"Problem?" John's question was very quietly put, so the others wouldn't hear. He could hear Sherlock's rapid breathing; the man's eyes were squeezed tightly shut. The sound alone of the horse must have triggered a flashback, and Sherlock was stuggling to control it. There was a little gasp, "John?"

"Sherlock, look at me. Just focus on me. I'm here." Slowly, those grey green eyes opened and focused on John. There was a look of utter panic in the gaze. He whispered, "_This can't be happening! Not NOW!"_ It was as distressing a confession of weakness that John had ever heard from his friend.

"Then let's go. Walk away. Remove yourself from what's distressing you." John put the bucket down but decided against touching his friend. He might be going into hypersensitivity and allodynia, and the doctor did not want to provoke a flight reaction, just a measured retreat.

Sherlock shook his head, "No, I _will not run away from __a __case_; I have to show them, solve it." There were more panting breaths, and John began to worry that Sherlock was going to hyperventilate or push himself into a full blown panic attack or meltdown.

If he couldn't talk Sherlock into leaving, then John decided the best way to help was to get him to focus on the case. "If looking at the horse is the problem, then leave it to me. Let me be your eyes. Just stand here, keep your eyes focused on the bucket here, and talk me though what I need to be showing the others. Together we can get through this."

Sherlock focused on John again. "You would do this for me?"

"Of course, what do I do first?"

The question seemed to ground Sherlock. He tried to reach into his right jacket pocket, but his hand shook so much that he was fumbling something. "Oh _HELL_, take the packet out, will you?"

John reached into the suit pocket and pulled out a small packet of brown powder. The plastic pouch had 'B4' printed on it. Sherlock's eyes were closed again, but his breathing was slowing down. "Rip it open and dump it into the bucket. Give me the sponge. I will focus on getting the powder dissolved, while you tell me what you see. Maybe it won't look too odd to the others. It'll just look like I'm busy with the bucket."

John followed the instructions. He left his friend's side and walked over to the others, taking his first proper look at the horse.

"So, John, what do you make of the horse?" Sherlock's question was loud enough to carry to the others, and sounded reasonably conversational.

John looked at the Irish horse, tried to see it the way he knew Sherlock would, deducing everything about it within seconds. "Well, he's a damn sight taller than Morag, that's for sure! Colonel Ross, how tall would you say he is?"

"Just a shade under 17 hands, I'd say. A fine looking specimen, if I do say so."

Sherlock finished stirring the bucket, and dropped the sponge in it. He'd pulled the metal handle out and used it to stir the powder until it dissolved. Now he re-fitted the handle onto the bucket. Despite John's willingness to be his eyes, the need to be in control of the case proved too strong. He stood up, but did not turn around.

"Let's play a game, Musgrave. I haven't looked at the horse, but I can deduce what he looks like without seeing him. I'll keep my back turned, but even so I can tell you what you are looking at. It'll be a bit of fun."

Musgrave and Ross exhanged curious glances, but did not question Sherlock. They were growing used to his eccentricities.

"He's a very dark bay, almost black, with totally black points- legs and muzzle pure black. No white on him anywhere. Black mane and tail. Am I right so far?"

Musgrave answered. "Yes, but how the deuce do you know when you've not seen him?"

"His coat is darker than the Highwood horses, but there's a look about him that makes you think that maybe there's some Gatcombe blood in there somewhere. Am I right Ross? Is that your view?"

"Well, now that you mention it, yes. And he _does_ look like something closely related to Soldier Girl- got her head on him."

John heard the confidence returning to Sherlock's voice. "Ross, run your hands along his side. Has he got any recent cuts or scraches on him?"

The Colonel obliged. "Nothing on the right side." There was a moment's pause as the dapper man ducked under the horse's neck and carried on feeling the other side. "Wait a minute, got something here." He looked more closely. "Yes, indeed, Holmes. A scratch about, well, I suppose four inches long. Fairly recent, too. Not healed up yet."

Sherlock nodded. "John, come take the bucket and get the sponge wet, rub it gently between the horse's eyes. Be careful not to get any of it in his eyes. It won't hurt him, but it might sting."

John came over to Sherlock and bent over to pick up the bucket. While his back was turned to the others and the horse, he said very quietly to Sherlock. "Are you alright?" He looked up at the consulting detective just long enough to get a quick nod. And then he walked back to the horse.

Silas Brown, who had been watching the consulting detective with increasing annoyance, now intervened. "Just what game are you playing? What's in that water, Holmes? If you are trying to scupper the horse's chances by poisoning him, I won't let you."

"Don't be absurd, Brown. The horse will be fine. This product is used everyday by women all over the country. _You _ may be surprised by the result, but I am getting the distinct impression that you've been taken in as much as everyone else."

John did not hesitate. He used the sponge to wet the horse's coat and rubbed gently. In a matter of moments, he realised that the place under the sponge was becoming lighter, as if colour was being washed off. He continued to rub until a large lighter coloured stripe appeared from beneath the black, all the way down the horse's nose.

Ross was the first to speak. "I'll be damned. It's a blaze. Quick, use that stuff on his right hoof and find out if there's a white sock. If he's got one, then this is our horse!" A moment later came the triumphant cry," That's _BLAZE!" _

"How did you know, Holmes? How is it possible? Who did this?" The questions poured out of Reginald, Ross and Pierson at the same time.

Sherlock was laughing. "Well, for starters, whoever gave him his alias had a sense of humour. _Ibhfolach_ translates from Irish into English as "Hidden". Musgrave, you've got your trophy back. Ross, you've got your horse back. Now let's see if I can find the person who is responsible for the charade." He started across the quadrangle.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty Three**

* * *

"Just hold on a moment, Mister Holmes." Detective Inspector Pierson had been slowly trying to digest the facts that had just been revealed. The way the Wessex Cup had been hidden and then found, the deductions that explained the accidental death of Stryker, then the fact that the horse had been kidnapped, disguised, his identity faked. It was just all too much to take in at once. He'd gone from believing that Fitzroy Simpson was the prime suspect in a murder case to a situation where he wasn't even sure that a prosecutable crime had taken place. Above all, he needed someone to blame. It was his job as a policeman.

Sherlock stopped his march across the quad of the Capleton Yard, but he didn't turn around. "What _now_, Detective Inspector?" His impatience was scarcely concealed.

"If Simpson is no longer in the frame for this, then…well, surely Silas Brown is guilty of horse-napping? He must be the accomplice you described in your little play-acting?"

Still with his back to the men, Sherlock exploded. "Oh, for God's sake, Pierson, _look_ at the fellow! Do you think he has the brain power needed to come up with this idea? And what possible motive would he have? He _wants_ his own horse Desborough to win the cup. Why on earth would he want to run a dark horse against his own, particularly if he knew that the horse was actually the favourite? Blaze is almost certain to beat Desborough. You're an idiot. If Brown had been behind this little exercise, then the horse would be horsemeat by now. That's how I know he isn't responsible."

Musgrave spoke up, "Then who is? Dammit, Holmes, _someone's_ to blame for putting us through the wringer, and they need to face the music."

All the while, Sherlock had not turned around. He stood with his back to the men. Now he growled, "Put the horse back in the stall, Ross. Then I will explain more."

Musgrave and Ross exchanged a confused look. It was the Colonel who voiced the question they shared. "Why?"

"_JUST DO IT_!" This was shouted by an irate man, at the edge of his tether. John was already in motion toward the horse. He grabbed the rope and led it away quickly, Blaze needed to trot to keep up with the doctor.

Once the horse was in the stall and the door was closed behind him, John called out, "he's out of the way, Sherlock; it's okay."

The consulting detective spun on his heel and marched back up to the group, anger making his stride even longer. Musgrave and Ross, Pierson and Simpson and, of course, Silas Brown- all looked startled at the detective's outburst.

Sherlock was so angry he nearly spat out his next words. "Alright then, if producing the Cup and the horse are not enough, let's test _your_ powers of deduction, shall we?" John came across the quad at a run. He could see the agitation and anger rolling off the shoulders of his friend, and feared for an explosion.

"Brown- you have had no contact with the person who claimed to be that horse's owner, apart from email, or perhaps a phone call. _Am I right_?"

"Uh, yes- both phone and e mail arrangements made a week ago. We were to keep it secret until the last minute, just before entrance to the Cup closed. That way the odds wouldn't shorten. The owner is …or rather claimed to be…based in County Wicklow, a chap by the name of Patrick Cloony. He's coming over the day after tomorrow to watch the Cup."

"A logical story, and one you wouldn't argue with; after all, Irish Sport horses have dominated the world of international eventing for the past fourteen years. Getting one of their horses associated with your training yard was just too good an opportunity to pass up, wasn't it?" The manic speed with which this was delivered worried John.

Silas Brown had the decency to look embarrassed. "Well, it seemed a dream come true."

"Yes, precisely, and someone was relying on your appetite for such a coup. A week ago? Yes, the timing works perfectly." He walked two paces away and then turned in a tight circle, twice. John watched with growing concern.

"The rider…the rider has been here for a while. Nearly a week, am I _wrong_?"

"No- spot on. A lass from Wicklow. She arrived before the horse did, actually."

That brought a smirk to Sherlock's face. "Black hair, I presume?"

"Indeed."

The consulting detective whirled around and approached Brown, intruding on his personal space, which had the effect of making the man most uncomfortable. But he stood his ground as Sherlock leaned forward and asked, "What's her _name_? Is it O'Sullivan, by any chance?"

Brown looked thunderstruck. "How the devil did you know that? No one else knows that here at Capleton; she made me swear to keep it secret! Katie O'Sullivan's her name."

Sherlock spun away, back into manic mode again. He was laughing with delight. "Oh, this just gets better and better!" He was rubbing his hands with glee.

John decided to step in, to slow things up, calm things down. "Sherlock- better explain what's going on. You know, normal mortals need the occasional glimpse of what's going on in that head of yours."

That quiet voice made Sherlock turn and look at the doctor with a tinge of uncertainty. "…not good?" came out quietly.

"Just…get to the point."

The detective was silent for a moment. But, then as if the energy fizzing in his brain was too much to handle, his shoulders twitched and he launched in. "Alright then. Consider this. The Countess of Southrop announces to the world that Highwood Blaze is to be sold to an American sponsor. The horse that Bill Styker trained and that Rosie Baxter rode to such success in the 2012 Olympics is to leave the country. The two of them are desperate for a way to keep the horse. They offer to buy it- Musgrave, it would have helped if you'd have admitted that at the start. Keeping the truth from us about your long term intention to close the Yard was not very conducive to solving this little puzzle." The words came out almost faster than his audience could take them in.

As soon as he realised what Sherlock had said, Colonel Ross shot an angry glance at Reginald, who looked discomforted by the truth being revealed so bluntly.

But Sherlock was off and running again. "Never mind, Ross. You are collateral damage and peripheral to the story. Thwarted in their efforts, Stryker and Baxter cook up a scheme. Sophie's gossip was dead right, Ross- she said they were "thick as thieves"- her words exactly. Of course, she meant that the yard staff thought the pair was having an affair. After all, Rosie took a room at Stryker's cottage. What they didn't know, but I was able to find out when I spent an afternoon at the cottage, is that William Stryker was Rosie Baxter's _father_. Rosie was the result of a brief liaison when Stryker was over in Ireland scouting for horses. Rosie's mother is Irish- Catherine O'Sullivan was her maiden name, by the way, before she married; she died in an eventing accident six years ago. Rosie came to find her real father, and he mentored her. When she was in Ireland as a child, Rosie was known by the step-father's name– Baxter- which helped to disguise their relationship once she was reunited with Stryker."

John was struggling to follow this...tale. It sounded like something out of a TV drama.

Sherlock took a deep breath and carried on. "So, the pair decided that if they couldn't have Blaze legitimately, then they would do so illegally. The scam was probably first an attempt to 'pull a Shergar'- to make it look like a kidnapping gone wrong, no ransom note to be sent. He'd be reintroduced to the eventing world as an Irish Sport horse. Once spirited away from Musgrave Hall, the horse was dyed- Rosie used the same hair dye on herself, resurrected her childhood accent and arrived here with the "new" horse. The odds on Ibhoflach were quoted in today's morning paper as thirty to one. A wager of £10,000 would have netted them £100,000. I think that when Stryker and his daughter realised that the Musgrave treasure was worthless, they decided to hide the Cup and try to pawn it. They'd get at least £100,000 for it - a wager that would earn a cool £1 million when Blaze won. Once they had the winner's purse in their hands, they'd have to decide whether to keep up with the dark horse charade or go back to the Countess, confess all, restore the Cup to its rightful owner and pay over the rest of the cash to Musgrave so long as the Yard stayed open, Blaze stayed in the country and Rosie could keep riding him."

The consulting detective drew a quick breath and finished, "All's well that ends well. Only it didn't, because of a lost horseshoe and a tragic accident."

John wished he could have captured the look on the faces of the men listening to Sherlock. Musgrave's mouth was gaping. Colonel Ross looked apoplectic. Pierson's expression was confused. Simpson had followed the story with growing amusement. And Silas Brown was outraged- red faced with anger and embarrassment.

"Those _bastards_! They played me for a fool!"

"Relax, Mister Brown. You no more than any of the others. It was quite clever. Took me about twenty four hours to figure it out".

Musgrave just sputtered, "a day?! A _single_ day?! Then what the hell took you so long to explain it to us? You've been sitting on this for _four _whole days?"

That earned him a cool look from the consulting detective. "Figuring it out and being able to prove it are two _different_ things, Musgrave. And besides, there was a whole night and a day and another half day that ended up wasted in a hospital, wasn't there? Not my fault- it was just an accident."

Pierson spoke up, "So, Mister Brown, where is she? Where is Rosie Baxter or O'Sullivan or Stryker- whichever is her real name?"

The Capleton trainer shrugged. "She exercised the horse this morning at first light, but I haven't seen her since. She's got a bed over the office- we put up our riders and stable staff in the dormitory up there." He gestured to the building behind Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "She won't be there- too obvious, she doesn't want to be found. My guess is that she spotted us as soon as we came into the yard, and has hidden herself almost as well as she did Blaze."

Colonel Ross chipped in. "If she's got any sense, she's run away and put as much distance between her and me as she could."

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the Colonel. "You surprise me, Ross. You, of all people, would know that her motive for this has been that she could not bear to lose the horse. What makes you think she would abandon him now?"

Something in the tone of his voice reminded John that Sherlock might understand better than anyone what the loss of a horse could mean. But, before he could step into the conversation and try to lead it to safer ground, Reginald responded.

"Well, Holmes, the Countess said you'd sort it. Didn't believe her, but you've found the Cup, solved the murder, restored the horse, and all that's left is to find Rosie. Think you can do that, too?"

Sherlock's look skewered the man. "Of course, it's what I was about to do before I was so rudely interrupted." With that, he strode off toward the far corner of the quadrangle.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:** _We're in the home stretch now, with only one more chapter after this and then an epilogue, but there is a hurdle of angst ahead that must be jumped first...don't like, don't read. You have been warned._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Four**

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Sherlock headed back towards the side of the quadrangle that was split by the arched gateway that they had first come through less than an hour before. John was hard pressed to keep up with him. When Sherlock's pace was driven by anger and frustration as it was now, he did not adjust his stride, and very quickly he was drawing away from the doctor, widening the gap between them. John's attention was drawn to their destination. While there were horse stalls on this side of the square, the building had two doors, one either side of the archway into rooms that were clearly reserved for human use, rather than equine. As Sherlock approached, he yelled over his shoulder. "Brown, which side is the tack room, and which feed?"

The group of men were following the pair, more slowly- Musgrave, Ross, Simpson, Pierson and the Capleton trainer who now shouted back at the consulting detective, "tack's on the right."

Sherlock did not break stride but altered course and was pushing the door open before John could get there. Momentum took him four strides into the room, where he stopped. When John caught up, he could see Sherlock looking at the long table along the side of the room, the whole width of the room. Lit by the sun coming in the windows looking out onto the car park, the room's contents caught John by surprise.

The whole left wall was a mass of leather; over thirty saddles hanging in four rows up on wall mounted wooden brackets, each one gleaming. On the right wall, above the table, were dozens of bridles on pegs, some labelled with horses' names. Against the wall that had the door through which they had come were fitted cupboards with drawers – some were pulled open- and John could see saddle blankets, boxes of stirrup irons, hoofpicks, curry combs. The top of the cupboard was a mass of bottles of horse linament, hoof dressings, mane braid wax- the paraphenalia of a high class stable. The scent of horse and leather was overwhelming to his nose, and it made him look carefully at Sherlock's back which was turned to him.

"Sherlock, you alright?" John kept his voice low and calm. He didn't want to startle the man if he was in the midst of sensory overload.

At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock took a hesitant step towards the table. He reached for the bridle that was lying on it, and raised one of the reins, making it clear he was showing it to John, though he did not turn to face him. Even from three feet away, he doctor could see that the rein had been sliced, cut in two - a knife job? "You think that's Blaze's- the one that Stryker cut when the horse nearly bolted?"

The doctor's question was given the briefest nod in response. Sherlock's breathing pattern was changing, getting quicker. He turned to the left wall, and then slowly walked to the fourth bracket from the right on the bottom row, and pulled a saddle off onto his right arm. He was a little clumsy, not being able to use his left. He brought it back to the table and dumped it next to the bridle. Just one word- "Blaze" came out.

John couldn't help but ask. "How can you tell? There must be thirty saddles here."

"Scent. Musgrave uses Passier saddle soap. The rest of these are Capleton. They use...another brand." The words were uttered in a completely flat monotone, but John heard the hesitation at naming the second brand of saddle soap.

Trying to help fill in the uncharacteristic gap in Sherlock's knowledge, John looked at the cupboard top behind him, and picked up a round tin - Flaxalan Leather Dressing. "This one?"

Sherlock slowly turned to look at the round tin that John held up. His face looked both pale and sweaty. At the sight of the tin, his breath caught, and his eyes closed. Then he collapsed. It was so sudden, so unexpected that John had no time to move before the tall detective simply crashed down, hitting the wooden table hard on his way to the stone floor.

"_SHERLOCK!" _ Adrenalin kicked in and John was beside him an instant later, just as the Silas Brown pushed the door open, the others crowded in behind him. Suddenly the room was full of people, all talking at once."What the hell? What's happened? Is he alright?"

John ignored them, moving the inert figure on the floor onto his right side, a recovery position, and assessed the damage. He tried to replay the image in his mind, to see if Sherlock had struck his head on the way down. He found a pulse point on his neck and then Sherlock's eye lashes started to flutter. Once John realised that the detective had simply fainted, and that he was starting to come around, his attention turned to the wrist. As Sherlock had fallen, the arm had been trapped between his body and the table, smacking it hard on the way down. It was certain to have moved the bones. _Damn._

"Brown, call an ambulance and get it here _fast." _ John snapped.

"No." The baritone whisper was shaky, but definitely awake. John leaned back down close to his friend.

"Sherlock, don't move. You've had a fall, and you may have opened the fractures again."

"No, got to move, get away."

"You don't have to do anything, except lie there quietly. Your're going to be okay." John glared at the noise of the men standing in the room. He could hear Brown in the doorway speaking into a mobile phone, but the others were talking, too loud, asking questions, expressing concern. John knew the noise would be unsettling Sherlock even more, so he just hissed back at them, "_Be QUIET! Just get out now." _ Musgrave backed out; Ross, Simpson and Pierson followed suit.

"They're gone, Sherlock. Just keep your eyes closed."

"No. _Burning. Smoke._ I have to move._" _This last sentence came out as a panicked whisper. John realised that Sherlock was now in a flashback.

"No, Sherlock, you are safe. This is John and I'm with you now. I will keep you safe. Your're at the Capleton stable. You came here with me to find Blaze, and you did it. There is no fire, no smoke. You're safe. Can you feel my hand on your right wrist?" He was trying to ground Sherlock in the present, whilst checking his pulse again. Whatever had happened in the trauma Sherlock had endured when he was fifteen, he'd been alone. Realising that John was with him could help pull him out of it. He decided to risk touching him; knowing that his left arm would be screamingly painful, the doctor wanted to give him the assurance that he was real, he was not alone, before the allodynia could set in.

But, Sherlock's breathing pattern was increasing as the panic began to kick in. John realised he had just seconds before the whole thing took hold for good. He took the man's right wrist in a firmer grip and said quietly, firmly, "Slow your breathing down, Sherlock. You are safe. But _the case_ needs you to focus. You came in here to find Rosie Baxter. Where is she, Sherlock? I need your help to find her. That's what you were doing before you fell; help me find her now."

"Rosie?" it came out in a whisper. "But...she's not here where the fire started." His breathing slowed a fraction.

"That's right, she's not there, she's _here_. Do you know where we are _now_?" John knew that to break the hold of the flashback, he had to get Sherlock to recognise where he was and that it was different from where the trauma took place.

His friend's nose wrinkled. To a hyperalert sense of smell, the scent of all the leather must be overpowering and John realised it could be pulling him back into the flashback. The doctor answered his own question, "Sherlock, we're at Capleton now, you brought us here to solve the case. You found Blaze. Rosie is hiding somewhere. Help me find her."

Sherlock's eyes opened. "Rosie... _Yes. _ She's like the treasure, but not under; she's _above_."

That made no sense to John, but at least Sherlock wasn't talking about smoke anymore. "Above where, Sherlock? Tell me, can you do that?" To fight the drag of the flashback, he needed to get him to keep talking to him and to focus on the case, the _now_.

He bent down so those grey green eyes could see him. Sherlock looked confused, but then his breathing continued to slow. "Use the broom, John. You'll be able to reach. Look for the hatch in the ceiling- it's over the table."

John was loathe to leave his friend's side, but he wanted to keep Sherlock's attention on the case. So, he got up and grabbed the broom from the corner, near the door. Looking up above Blaze's saddle and bridle lying on the tack table, he saw the hatch in the ceiling to the left and poked the broom at it. The wooden trap rattled, and when he pushed harder, he shoved it aside about half way. Clearly, there was a crawl space between the ceiling and the roof.

Sherlock called out. "Rosie. Come down. It's alright. We've found the cup and returned it. We know your father was killed by accident. Blaze is alright."

There was no response, no noise at all. John wondered if Sherlock's flashback had somehow interfered with his deductive reasoning. But the consulting detective spoke again. "You've lost your father, but you don't have to lose the horse. If you want to keep Blaze, then you have to come down, explain what happened. There's still time. The Countess might not press charges." His voice seemed to waver. "You're lucky, you know. You've still got him..."

John heard the wobble in his voice, and put the broom down, returning to his injured friend. "Stay with me, Sherlock. You're alright."

But the younger man's turned his face away, grinding his cheek into the rough concrete floor. "He's...dead." It was whispered with such pain that John had to draw a deep breath. Sherlock's own breathing was faster now, almost panting.

John started to speak, but his words were interrupted by the scraping sound of the wooden hatch being shoved all the way aside. A pair of booted legs appeared, and then the rest of a young woman carefully levered herself down from the space until she was poised over the table, then dropped with a thump onto it. She then jumped down to the floor, pushing her shoulder length black hair out of her eyes. "Who are you, and how did you find out about Blaze, and my father?"

The doctor's realisation of just what had happened occurred at the same moment that he heard the wail of an approaching ambulance siren.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty Five**

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**Author's Note:** OKAY- so I lied. TWO more chapters, this one here, another one and an epilogue. Did I hear someone say thank you? One more of serious angst, the rest are consequences.

* * *

Sherlock heard someone talking, a girl's voice. He didn't care; it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting away- he had to move or the fire would consume him. Everything hurt. His wrist was on fire. He could feel the skin peeling away, flames licking at the wrist. Pirate in the stall next to the tack room was screaming- he could hear the sound getting louder and louder. His own heart was pounding so hard that he could hear it, even feel its movement in his chest. His blood was whooshing through his ears, he could hear the sound of his eyeballs moving; even though his eyes were shut tight, he still kept moving them, looking for the flames through the dark smoke. He head was full of a fuschia neon pink so harsh and garish that it burned holes in his brain. Every one of his senses was on fire. The smoke sounded a hard discordant note- somewhere around b flat. His mouth was dry and he was pulling in air as quickly as he could, terrified that he was going to be consumed by smoke and flame. Why did the air taste pink? _Why couldn't he move?_ If he didn't, he was going to die.

Now it was a man's voice he heard. Was it _his_ voice, the one who came down out of the ceiling hatch and attacked him? He was putting away the box of mane ribbons; he'd just finished counting them to be sure that there were more than enough for Gatcombe. He'd gone for white this time, to go with the white saddle blanket, the white trim on the bridle, in contrast to his own black dressage jacket and boots. White ribbons showed off Pirate's arched neck so well. He was looking forward so much to the nationals. At last, freed from the shadows that had been chasing him and Pirate for the past two years. His enemy had been banished. Fired, sent away by Guilliams. His father had not believed him, so he'd endured it for too long. But when the trainer finally caught the man hurting Pirate, he'd been fired on the spot. He didn't have to tell anyone what the man had been doing to him, just the horse.

Sherlock was going over the freestyle dressage sequence in his mind while his fingers counted the ribbons. So, he was slow to realise what the sound behind him meant. When he turned, his mind had trouble understanding the sight of legs in riding boots descending through the hatch, then the thud of his enemy landing on the tack table. The stream of vile swearing, the rage now unleashed. He'd thought himself at last free from the fear, but now his enemy was back. Panic just paralysed Sherlock until those rough hands grabbed him and started to hit him.

But this voice wasn't the same. And these hands weren't hitting him, they were holding him. Not the one who beat him, stripped his clothes off, tied him up and then picked up the riding crop. Not the one who started the fire. This voice was not angry and brutal. It was calm, insistent. It kept telling him to slow down his breathing. "Sherlock, you need to close your mouth and breath through your nose. Try to hold each breath, count it- two hundred and twenty one b- before you let it out slowly and take another. Can you do that for me?"

_Impossible_. I can't shut my mouth. The fire is sucking all the oxygen out of the room. The smoke is choking me, I _have_ to keep breathing! _I'm going to die if I don't get out of here!_ The Sherlock realised that Pirate had stopped screaming. _Oh God, he's dead! _ Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes and he started to stuggle to sit up. His left arm and hand hurt like hell, his right tingled and felt numb as he used it to lift his weight. As his head started to get vertical, he felt dizzy, sick to his stomach, the walls seemed to tilt and he lost his balance again.

"Sherlock, _SHERLOCK!"_ but he was lost. _If Pirate's dead, then I don't want to live._ He surrendered to the smoke and the flame; the darkness took him.

oOo

Doctor Onugbou switched on the light box on the wall outside the trauma room. "It's not great news, I'm afraid. This new bone chip…" he gestured to the film "…nicked the volar radial carpal artery. We haven't assessed for nerve damage, but there might be some of that as well. The fall also bent the plate and pulled out of line three of the screws." The West African doctor grimaced. "If anything, it's worse than it was originally. Forget all the king's horses and all the king's men. I'm not sure even Will Masters can put this one back together again. Quite frankly, it's a mess; he'll be lucky to escape a fusion of that joint."

John blanched. "Not an option." Without the violin as escape valve, Sherlock would simply not be able to cope. It was his security blanket, and a way, perhaps the only way, he allowed himself to express emotion- be it chasing Mycroft out of the flat with discordant atonal notes, or whispering of his ennui in the middle of the night.

"Well, we will have to wait and see what Masters says. I've just spoken to him on the phone. To say that he was not amused about the idea of returning here _again_ from holiday in Cornwall- well, I'll leave you to imagine his reaction. We've managed to control the bleeding for now with a compression dressing. He's been cross-matched for four units and he's now upstairs, awaiting the Hb result to see how much to give him. Given Masters won't be here for a while yet; the vascular surgeon will probably have to tackle the arterial repair first."

John went up to the fifth floor Emergency Surgery department, and slumped into a chair. _Deja vu_ didn't even begin to describe his state of mind. Since he'd last sat here, Sherlock had solved not one mystery, but four - he'd found the Wessex Cup, solved the 'murder' of Bill Stryker, recovered Highwood Blaze, and revealed Rosie Baxter's role in the it all. The young woman had been arrested by DI Pierson as soon as she left the tack room. John had scarcely noticed and cared even less. _What price will Sherlock have to pay for this case?_ _What has my selfishness of wanting to ride cost him?_

The ambulance trip had been longer this time than on the night they had come from Musgrave Hall. Midday traffic didn't help, nor did the fact that Capleton was seven miles further east. At first John could not calm his injured friend, who resisted the ministrations of the ambulance crew. He'd been confused and struggled against the hands that moved him onto the trolley. Once he was safely strapped in, John tried to keep talking to him, fighting against the pull of the flashback, but it was a lost battle. He kept remembering Frank Wallace's description of how he'd taken Sherlock to Worthing Hospital in the middle of the night. Now they were re-enacting the same process, so it was hard to convince his friend that he wasn't re-living the original trauma. Sherlock's eyes were shocked wide- John couldn't tell if it was the pain, his hypersensitivity to the ambulance siren, or the flashback. But he did not speak again, nor acknowledge John's presence beside him. Somewhere on the outskirts of Gloucester, Sherlock lost consciousness.

As horrible as the wreckage of Sherlock's wrist was, John worried more about his state of mind. Traumatic memory had been well and truely unleashed. _Pandora's box_. Too many triggers- horses, loss and death, the broken bones and pain. Whatever coping mechanisms Sherlock had developed to deal with it twenty one years ago, they'd been undermined now to the point where sight, scent or sound were enough to trigger flashbacks and panic attacks. _God knows what nightmares he's had; maybe that's why he fell out of bed in the first place. _

There was one more task he was dreading. He had to call Mycroft. He explained where he was going to the nurse at the desk, and walked down the stairs to the ground floor and out the door. There was a series of benches outside, but under a glass canopy. He sat on one of them and wearily pulled out the phone, and hit last call redial.

"Doctor Watson, how can I help?" The calm voice of Mycroft's PA, not-Anthea, answered on the second ring.

"Oh...I need to speak to Mycroft, please? It's about Sherlock."

There was the briefest of pauses. "Mister Holmes has transferred his personal calls to me because he's in a meeting that's uninterruptable. Can I help?"

"How long will that meeting last?"

"Indeterminant. Could be another four to five hours. Is it a life-threatening situation? If it is, I can get a code message to him."

John thought about it. "No, not really. But, when he gets out of that meeting, tell him to call me. We are back at the Royal Gloucestershire Hospital."

Not-Anthea said quietly, "Is he alright?"

"No, no he's not 'alright'" John snapped, before remembering that she would have read the original medical reports from Worthing Hospital, before faxing them to Mycroft. He had no idea how long she'd been working with the elder Holmes, but probably long enough to know a great deal about his brother. Enough for Mycroft to trust her with this most delicate and personal research on his behalf. The doctor decided that she deserved to know a bit more than he might have been willing to share.

"I'm sorry; didn't mean to bite your head off. He's rebroken his wrist, badly, and had a series of bad flashbacks. PTSD is taking hold."

"If there is anything that Mister Holmes could do immediately to help you or his brother, tell me and I will get it done now. He's always given me full authority when something has to be done for Sherlock."

John thought about it. "Yes, there is ... Find a way to get the consultant Will Masters to Gloucester from Cornwall as fast as possible. The longer Sherlock has to wait for surgery, the worse the damage is likely to be."

"I'm on it. We used a helicopter last time. He will know the drill. Anything else?"

John realised that his call to Mycroft had been in part simply to share the worry he was feeling about Sherlock, and to seek his advice about how to handle the situation. Both of those things could wait; Sherlock would be in surgery and anaesthetised for hours to come. "Actually, no- once he gets into surgery, it's all about waiting. He will be unconscious for hours yet. Get Mycroft to call me when he gets out of the meeting, because I need to know how he wants me to handle things when Sherlock wakes up." With that, John thanked her, said good bye and hung up.

oOo

Four hours later and John was fed up with waiting. He had spent entirely too many hours sitting in plastic chairs, watching the tides of people washing through the hospital. As a doctor, working in his own hospital, the environment was familiar enough to ignore. When he was on duty, he had things to do, places to go, people to see, decisions to make. When he was at work, patients took priority, but even so, it wasn't about the individual person. An occupational hazard of being a surgeon is that one defines one's day not by the people one has operated upon, but rather the bits of them- a compound fracture, a gunshot wound, the shrapnel of a roadside IED, a car accident. 'Interesting days' involved complicated pieces of work, unusual techniques, a whipple, laproscopic work instead of open surgery, or an unusual bit of diagnosis- "Think medical deduction, Sherlock; it's what I do", he remembered trying to explain it to his flatmate in the early days. He'd tried to ignore the comment that followed, "Yes, John, but thereafter you become a transport mechanic."

As someone waiting on news about a particular patient, the experience was completely different. Mind numbingly boring, yet with an undercurrent of unrelenting tension and overwhelming frustration. He didn't care at all about the other patients, their families, the staff working in the hospital. At the London hospitals he'd been at while waiting for news about Sherlock, at least there he might well know some of the staff, and be able to talk to them informally. At some of those hospitals, UCH, St Thomas's and Barts, he now had locum privileges, so could move around more, go to the staff canteen- at least find someone with whom to commiserate. There were no such distractions here.

Royal Gloucestershire Hospital was a great unknown. And he would be happy if he never saw it again. Surrounded by the noises of the hospital, he tried to think through what he would say when Mycroft did finally get through. About how he could not leave Sherlock to ignore the PTSD, to pretend that nothing was different. He'd tried that strategy, gone along with his friend's refusal to even acknowledge the flashbacks and melt-down. He'd not raised it himself, because he also knew that forcing a traumatised person to "talk" about it was usually the worse possible thing you could do, if they were not prepared to engage with it.

But, neither could he ignore it. The sort of 'incident' (_How dare Sherlock's father minimise such an assault with such a trivial word?!)_ – it was something that should have never been allowed to happen. But when it did, the hospital should have reported it, so Sherlock would have had support, therapy, help to get through it. And whatever remission he'd had over the intervening period, it was now back with a vengeance. Pretending that these were simply 'accidents' was no longer an option.

Yet, no sooner was he on his medical moral high ground, when a little voice whispered "Yes, but YOU haven't exactly been willing to take the support, use the therapy, have you, John Watson?" As a PTSD patient, John had been horrible. He knew it. He had not 'engaged' with Ella, the therapist at all. He'd gone through the motions. But he knew that it was his anger that he daren't express. His anger at being caught in the crossfire and getting shot, his anger at being deprived of his career, of that unique blend of excitement and fear that made warzone medical work so potent a mixture. The exultation of surviving another day, of making a difference and saving lives in that day- it was utterly intoxicating. All of that had gone with one well-placed shot. And he was still angry about it. But the therapy had assumed that he was terrified, traumatised by the experience of being shot. He had never confessed to anyone the real reasons that probably lay behind his nightmares and his psychosomatic injury. Mycroft had seen it at once, even taunted him with it. "You're not _haunted_ by the war, Doctor Watson…you _miss_ it."

He sighed. This line of thinking was leading him down a singularly unproductive path. If he'd been unwilling to talk about his own experiences of PTSD, then why did he think Sherlock would find it any easier?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He got up and found the nearest gents, used the loo and washed his face, looking at the lined, haggard face staring back at him in the mirror above the basin. Sherlock had never pried when at the flat John emerged from his bedroom in the middle of the night and came down the stairs to make himself a cup of tea. Never commented on the nightmares that he must have heard. There were silent acknowledgements – the '_I know you are having a tough time'_ sort of gestures of Sherlock actually making him a cup of tea, easing off with his usual 'in your face' intruding on personal space, cutting back on the usual full throttle insults. Looking back on it now, he realised that on the mornings after such torrid nights, Sherlock gave him space, kept quiet, and gave him a chance to find his equibilbrium again. It was part of the reason why John never credited Sherlock's confession that he was a 'high functioning sociopath'. When John had woken up shouting twice in one night, he'd been lulled back to sleep by the sounds of a gentle violin, giving him something to think about apart from how miserable he was feeling. Just being around Sherlock was a form of therapy. The adrenalin-filled crime solving, the mental gymnastics of trying to keep up with the consulting detective, the distraction of complicated, dangerous crimes. It filled in the gaps, made life liveable. And his friend knew it, but never, ever had he asked John to 'talk' about why this was important. He'd cured the psychosomatic limp in one night, but done so without a word being said. What right did he have to intrude in Sherlock's situation now and demand that he 'talk' about it?

He decided to sneak a look at his phone to see if Mycroft had emerged yet. He'd always thought that the idea of hospital bans on mobile phones to be ...annoying and inconvenient. Very little medical technology these days could be interfered with by the signals. Still, he felt guilty as the phone acquired a signal and the reception bars grew in number. The vibration told him of a text coming through.

**5.27pm Call me. MH**

It was 5.45pm now. A man who was obviously visiting a patient _("Yes, Sherlock, even I noticed the bouquet of flowers were bought in the hospital gift shop"_) walked into the loo, and John stuffed his phone away, not wanting to be seen to be breaking the rules. He went down and outside, taking the same bench seat under the canopy, and hit last dial again.

"Hello, John. Tell me what happened." The phone had rung only once, so Mycroft must have been staring at it, willing him to call.

"He solved the case, but in so doing, provoked one hell of a flashback. He collapsed, and in falling, smashed his wrist again. Mason's at work on it now, trying to repair the damage. Arterial damage, maybe nerve damage. I don't know. But, you know something? I'm more concerned about his state of mind. He was ... manic in his determination to solve the case. Not once has he ... well, I don't know how to explain it. At times, I think no sooner does he have a flashback then he's deleting the memory. But it's been getting easier and easier to trigger the trauma. Two days ago, he rode a horse. Today, he couldn't even look at one without suffering a panic attack."

"How long has he been in surgery?" Mycroft's question was calm practicality personified. _Does anything ever upset this man?_ If he'd thought of Sherlock as emotionally reticent, John sometimes wondered if the elder Holmes had simply had his surgically removed.

"The arterial repair and nerve assessment were done first- that was about ninety minutes, waiting for Masters to get here. By the way, please thank Anth...your PA for getting the helicopter sorted. It got him here hours before he would have if he'd had to drive back. He's been at it now for..." John consulted his watch "about two hours."

"How long do you think it will be before he wakes up?"

"Well, he may recover consciousness briefly in post-op, but that doesn't mean he will remember any of it tomorrow morning. If you are asking when he might be _compos mentis_, well, that's tomorrow morning at the earliest. And you know him, the first thing he will do is want to be discharged so he can go home. If that happens, and we get back to Baker Street, we may not get another opportunity to address this."

"Your choice of words, John- how do you think we should 'address this'? What makes you think he will acknowledge the original trauma?"

"Have you talked to Esther Cohen yet?"

"She's away in Italy at the moment at a medical symposium; due back into London tomorrow. I was planning to do so then." There was a pause. "I agree that this is something that cannot be ignored. I have been doing some investigations of my own to see what can be discovered about the events around the 18th of August 1994. But it will take time to build a picture. And I must tell you, John, that nothing in my experience of Sherlock suggests that he will be a willing participant in this. He is most likely to deny all knowledge and simply refuse to discuss it."

"And you would let him?"

There was a sigh on the line. "Do you really think he will give us a _choice_ in this? The only way he has ever been willing to even consider the idea of external _assistance_ in such matters is when he was so strung out on drugs that he couldn't put up a reasonable fight. And even then I had to section him. You know the form. You've seen him in action. he will only engage in therapy to the level that is needed in order to get released. So, is he actually benefitting, or simply acting a role to secure his release? Do you really think he is going to happily agree to go off for CBT sessions with a therapist? If so, then you know my brother far less well than I thought you did."

Now it was John's turn to sigh. "I _know_, Mycroft. It's just that, well, if he can come to some sort of understanding about this, then maybe some of those things that have driven you and now me to worry about him constantly, well..maybe with help, some of those things might go away."

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. An old saying, but true. Wishing for something like that won't make it happen." There was a pause, which neither of them knew how to fill.

Mycroft resumed first. "When he is fit enough physcially to be discharged, bring him home to Baker Street. That's what he will want. Once he's home and safe, we can then see what sort of impact all of this has had on his state of mind."

John drew in a breath. "Yeah, you're right. One step at a time. I will call when I know about discharge, or if anything else happens. Good bye, Mycroft."

"Goodbye for now, John."

He went back upstairs to the dreaded plastic chairs and resumed his vigil.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty Six**

* * *

"Well, Mister Holmes, it might surprise you to know how often a patient is re-admitted with another fracture within days of the original break. I have to say, however, that in most cases, the patient is a habitual drunk, or elderly and very frail- neither of which you appear to be. So, are you able to give me any assurance that I won't be dragged off my family holiday in Cornwall a third time?"

Sherlock was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking better than he had any right to look. John, on the other hand, looked like he'd slept in his clothes, needed a shower and a shave. He'd been on tenterhooks for the past three hours, as Sherlock did none of the things that John expected him to do. No meltdown, no panic attacks, he'd been perfectly calm, lucid and communicative from the moment he opened his eyes. No nurses had fled from his room after the usual dose of deductive viciousness. Breakfast had been eaten without comment or argument. The follow-up tests were conducted by junior doctors, the post-operative x-rays taken without a single complaint, raised eyebrow or expression of boredom or tedium. And now John was watching the polite exchange between the consultant and the consulting detective with increasing surprise.

"I will do my best, Mister* Masters. If you can discharge me this afternoon, I will get myself back to London as quickly as possible, out of your jurisdiction. Then if anything untoward happens, it won't be your responsibility. I have heard it said that lightening doesn't strike three times in the same place, so I sincerely hope to avoid another repetition." Sherlock's humour was not sarcastic or ironic; it sounded like genuine chagrin.

Masters tried to look stern. "You are very, very lucky to have avoided nerve damage. After IVs, your blood and fluid loss has been dealt with. There is no evidence that your second fall involved any head injury, so I won't insult your intelligence by repeating what I said before. This time, try to avoid _any_ exercise, even _light_ exercise until you are told otherwise by your London specialist. Given your current form, I don't trust you not to do something else, so mandatory bed rest for three days to let things settle. Because Doctor Watson is a surgeon, I will trust him to sit on you if necessary. Send us the name of your London specialist and the records will be sent on. Frankly, Mister Holmes, I hope never to see you again- for all the right reasons, if you understand my meaning."

"I do- and the feeling is mutual. Thank you, Mister Masters. I appreciate your efforts."

It was the civility of Sherlock's reply that tipped the balance for John. He'd had a growing suspicion that this was Sherlock acting a part. Doing what was expected, what a "normal person" would do. In short, another of his disguises. That thought was confirmed by his friend's next words.

"Please apologise to your family for the unfortunate interruption to your holiday with them. I am afraid that my brother can be …rather demanding at times. I regret if you have been inconvenienced."

Yes. Definitely acting a part now. Like a chamaeleon, Sherlock was putting on the colours of civility in order to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible. And it was working.

"Right, I will sign the discharge papers, so you should be free to go in about an hour. Nurse Graham will help you get dressed. Goodbye, Mister Holmes."

John followed him out, where Nurse Graham was waiting, but before he could say anything more to Masters, the nurse interjected, "Excuse me, but Mister Holmes has a visitor. Shall I let her in to see him?"

John looked down the corridor to the waiting area, where in a chair an elderly woman was sitting. Behind her stood Brunton, the Musgrave butler. "I will see to this, Nurse; I think Sherlock will want to see her. So, could you give us about fifteen minutes before you come to get him dressed?"

She nodded. Masters said, "He's all yours, Doctor Watson. I'm off now" and disappeared as fast as he could. John didn't blame him one bit. He went down the corridor to the chairs. Brunton's face lit up when he saw John, and he bent to say something quietly to the immaculately dressed woman seated in the chair. She was wearing a lavender silk dress, with matching shoes and handbag. He saw her appraising eye sweep over him, but her gaze was kindly. She stood up carefully as he came up to them.

Brunton stepped forward. "Doctor Watson, allow me to introduce Lady Southrop."

For a moment, John wondered what the form was as she held out her hand. Did one kiss the hand of a countess, or was that screamingly old-fashioned? Should he just shake the offered hand? He took her hand, and she answered the question by giving his a gentle squeeze, which he reciprocated. The eyes that looked up at him (_My goodness, she is __tiny_) were smiling in pleasure.

"Doctor Watson, I am most obliged to you. I want to thank you for convincing Sherlock to take on my little problem. I understand that you have been most helpful in the whole business."

He gave a little laugh. "My role was pretty minimal, my Lady. As ever, Sherlock is the one who does all the hard work."

"Oh, I won't have false modesty, Doctor. I can read between the lines of your blog- and know just how difficult living with Sherlock can be. Anyone who can get the best out of him deserves a Victoria Cross. I've known him since he was three years old- and an absolute terror. Always into mischief and so clever- made me embarrassed that my nephew was so slow in comparison. Poor Violet, she loved him to bits and was forever being put through the mill about him by her husband. I am so, so very pleased to see just how well he is doing now, if the newspapers and your blog are to be believed. Now, can you tell me, how is the boy?"

John tried to hide the smirk. "He's thirty six years old, ma'm, and I think would object to being called a 'boy' now. He's…as well as can be expected. The break in his wrist is nasty, but I've just been told it should heal well."

A knowing look appeared. "Has he been behaving himself here, or will I have to apologise to the hospital staff?"

He smiled. "Seems to be behaving himself, for once."

She smiled back, and John saw beneath the aged eighty year old face the stunningly attractive woman she must have been in her youth. "I understand that between you and Colonel Ross, you managed to get him back onto a horse. You are nothing short of a miracle worker, Doctor Watson. I watched the video clip- must say that I always thought that Alpha had more to him than Simon ever managed to get from him. But, I was even more pleased to see Sherlock back in the saddle. I have never known anyone like him as a rider."

"I have to thank you, my lady, for the chance to ride your Morag. She's a splendid mare, and made me realise how much I have missed riding."

"Well, I am delighted that you could give her some exercise. My own physician has made me swear not to ride until the hunting season starts, to give this blasted hip of mine a chance to heal. There was a time when I could take a tumble at a refused fence, but alas, no more."

He nodded. "Bones take time to heal, my lady, both yours and his."

"Do you think he is up to visitors?"

John thought about it. On the one hand, seeing her might trigger another flashback, if he associated her too strongly with horses and eventing. On the other hand, the case had kept him grounded. He was torn.

"Please, Doctor Watson, I would so like to talk to him- it's been _years_. His mother, Violet, was my dearest friend, and I have regretted that our paths divided when he gave up eventing. Of course, I do see his brother occasionally at functions of state, but Sherlock is somewhat…reclusive. No, that's probably not being fair. Not reclusive, more just focused on what he wants. I am so grateful for what he has done- finding the Cup, discovering what actually happened to poor William Stryker, and then bringing Blaze back. Will you let me see him? I promise not to tire him out."

He could hardly say no. He took her by the arm, and walked her to the room. Popping his head around the door, he asked "Sherlock, you up for a visitor?"

"Not if it's Mycroft." That sounded like his usual self.

Before John could say anything else, the Countess swept around him and into the room. "Hello, Sherlock."

John watched as Sherlock drew a breath, and then held it, as if changing his mind about what he might have said. Instead, what came out was a quiet "Hello, Lady Southrop."

"Oh, Sherlock, don't you _dare_ stand on ceremony! You have not called me anything other than 'Auntie Bunny' since you were three years old!"

John was watching Sherlock's face closely. There was something going on in his expression, but John sensed it wasn't a flashback. There was no anxiety, more a sense of …what? Sadness? Not for the first time, he wished he had his friend's skills at deduction.

She went up to the bed and patted Sherlock's right hand. John waited for the avoidance, for the dislike of being touched to surface. But it didn't happen. Sherlock looked down at her hand then away, as if he didn't trust himself.

The elderly lady turned and asked John if he could move the chair over to the side of the bed. When she was seated, she asked quietly, "Doctor Watson, could you give us a few minutes' privacy, please?"

That put him in a quandary. She didn't know about the PTSD and might unwittingly trigger something, which meant he should stay. On the other hand, he wanted to respect her wishes.

"Sherlock?"

"Stay." Said so quietly, almost a whisper.

The doctor stood away from the bed, letting the Countess ignore him, if she wished.

"Very well, I don't mind if the good doctor gets to see an old lady admit she is a fool. I want to apologise, Sherlock, for letting you slip away." The Countess was watching those grey green eyes, and saw the confusion in them.

"You remind me so much of her that it actually _hurts_ to see you. If I thought it was hard when you were a child, Lord knows, it's harder now. Those cheekbones, those eyes, the hair. You are the very image of your mother. Just look at you." The Countess was doing that now. "You didn't know her the way I did. When we came out together that season, there wasn't a head that didn't turn when she walked into a room. When I presented the cup to you when you were fifteen, I went upstairs and cried for the thought of how proud she would have been to be there, too, and what I wouldn't have given to have a photo of the two of you. That made me miss her even more. When I heard that you'd stopped riding, I should have come to see whatever happened to poor Pirate. I didn't, and I am ashamed of that."

_Oh, God. Now she's done it! _John had not thought this was where the discussion was going. If he'd known…

Sherlock looked down at the old woman, and tentatively reached out, patting her hand. "I did not understand that my returning to Musgrave would cause you distress."

"Oh, you _silly_ boy! I'm just so grateful that you've found it in your heart to help me now- and in such an extraordinary way. You've salvaged the whole horrible mess. I can't bring William Stryker back, but thanks to you, I have a horse to run and a cup to give him when he wins."

"You will let Rosie ride him?"

"Of course, if she'd just come to me earlier, I am sure we could have worked something out. I've talked to the Nordstrom people and told them that if they want Blaze, they have to take her, too. They wanted her in the first instance, but she'd refused to leave Stryker. She'll do fine over in America. It will be good for her to go. A fresh start and all that."

"You won't press charges, then."

"How could I? It was her father's idea, but he's dead. Her _father_. Never in a million years would I have guessed that. But it explained why she wouldn't go to the Nordstroms' by herself. She was torn between going with the horse she loved and staying with the father that she adored. Not an easy choice to make."

Now that they were talking about the case, John felt the tension in his shoulders relaxing a bit.

"Once Blaze goes, will you keep the Yard going?"

"Of course, despite my stupid nephew. Oh, Reginald always thinks he knows better. But Musgraves have been horse people for six generations. I'm going to change my will so it is a condition of his inheriting a single stone of Musgrave. I know it's old fashioned. But, then so am I."

She was smiling now. "And I've also made another decision. I'm firing Simon. He's never been any good for Alpha." She hesitated a moment, then went on. "I've ordered my lawyer to sign over the horse's registration to a new owner, one Sherlock Holmes."

"No." It was said quietly, but firmly. "Not me. I will not ride again."

"Poppycock. I _saw_ the video that Ross took of you. You were _made_ to ride him. Who would have known back when you were fifteen that you'd grow so tall? You need a big bolshie horse. He will do well for you."

"You aren't listening. I will not ride again, ever."

"Why ever not? That wrist will heal."

Sherlock ignored the question entirely. "Let Sophie ride him."

"Sophie? Who…the girl who works in the yard?"

"Yes. She might not look the part to you. But she will bring out the best in him, and she deserves the chance. She will devote _everything_ to the riding and to him. I cannot, will not. I'm sorry to disappoint you again, but…you must let Sophie be the rider. Trust me on this- next year when Alpha wins with her on him, you'll know I was right." He patted her hand again, and then looked across to John as if asking for rescue.

The doctor took the cue. "My lady, I think we need to bring this to an end. There are things that need to be done before he can be discharged and we can catch the train."

The elderly woman stood up, smoothed the lavender silk skirt. "Train? Don't be absurd. It's our responsibility to get you back to London. Brunton brought me here in his car; I will have him call my chauffeur and get him to bring my car here. It will take him a half an hour, will that be soon enough?"

John nodded.

The old woman took Sherlock's hand again for a brief moment. "Thank you, Sherlock. For all you've done. And I am glad to have seen you; it's taken me over twenty years to have the courage to do so. I can now remember you as the man who saved the Musgrave's honour, rather than seeing you and missing her." She released his hand and John took her out of the room.

John watched her go. Then he turned back to his friend and seized the opportunity. "Sherlock, she was honest enough to raise her memories about you and your mother, can you do the same?"

Sherlock looked at John with puzzlement. "I don't understand what you mean, John. I bear her no grudge. I remember she was very fond of my mother. It is perfectly understandable that thinking of me would make her uncomfortable and unhappy. It was true for a lot of my mother's family and friends. It's not something I waste time thinking about."

"Memories aren't a waste of time, Sherlock; they make us who we are, give us meaning, a context to our lives."

Sherlock sniffed. "Sentiment, John. The sad tendency of the elderly to look back on things and re-write their own histories with the advantage of hindsight. Irrelevant and unimportant. Now, can you ask that nurse to get in here and help me get dressed? I really do want to leave this hospital just as soon as we can manage it."

John realised that the opportunity had passed. He sighed and went out to find Nurse Graham.

* * *

**Author's Note:** *doctors in senior consultant positions in UK hospitals are conventionally called "mister" rather than "doctor"- only in the UK...

All that's left now is the epilogue tomorrow.


	27. Epilogue

**Epilogue: **

* * *

As soon as John got Sherlock settled and belted into the back of the Countess's Bentley, he started to think. It would take them about two and a quarter hours to get to Baker Street. In the meantime, he had a captive audience of one consulting detective with memory issues. Perhaps now he'd be able to get Sherlock to at least acknowledge that there were problems that needed to be dealt with. That said, the target of his concern had closed his eyes within seconds of the car leaving the hospital and was currently giving off a "do-not-disturb-on-pain-of-insult" aura.

_Be brave, John. You've faced worse enemy gunfire before now. _He had to figure a good way to approach it, one that did not provoke all the wrong reactions. Not for the first time since he moved into the flat, John wished he had paid more attention to his psychology unit at medical school. Then he realised that even if he had, Sherlock's ability to run circles around trained professionals would have meant any such knowledge on his part would probably be worse than useless. He decided that gut instinct would have to do.

"Sherlock, I want to hear you admit that I was right."

That provoked one lid to slowly rise, revealing a grey-green eye looking at him with suspicion. "In what way?" The scepticism was evident.

"You cannot possibly say that this case was _boring_."

This was met with a soft huff. "Of course not, but I never said it would be."

"Did you really solve it on the first day? Or were you just saying that to get up Reginald's nose? He deserved it- the guy was rather full of himself."

"I don't say things for 'effect'; I meant every word I said. It was easy to figure out the first bits. The only complicated part was figuring out how the horse 'disappeared'. Once we got to the crime scene, that became clear and then it was just a case of following the evidence."

"Well, I haven't forgiven you for keeping me in the dark. I wasn't 'on holiday'. That said, I am glad that I did get a chance to ride. It made me realise that despite what happened to my shoulder, I could take it up again."

There was no reply, and the eye slowly shut again.

John tried again. "Why didn't you want to ride to get to High Wood?" He tried to make it innocent, but worried that Sherlock would be able to read him as he always did.

"Pointless- an inefficient method of transport. The Landrover would have been better."

"Why?"

That made Sherlock's brow furrow. "Fewer distractions in a car. I don't need to pay any attention. I can u_sually_ tune out annoying superfluous data. Harder, of course, when someone keeps talking." That was the first rattle of the Sherlockian tail. If John kept annoying him, the rattle snake would have to resort to more obvious warnings and perhaps a bite with fangs extended. John did not bother hiding his smirk. He knew that even with his eyes closed, Sherlock would be able to deduce what John's expression was.

The car went around a roundabout and the shifting gravity was felt by the two men. Sherlock's breath caught a bit- must have put pressure on the sling.

The doctor in him required a conversational tack away from memories into something more practical. "Did the hospital fill the pain relief and antibiotic prescriptions, or are we going to have to ask the driver to stop before we get to Baker Street?"

There was derisory snort from Sherlock. "The post-operative antibiotics will wreak havoc on my digestive tract, which is already disrupted by the general anaesthetic. I don't mind if I don't eat for the next few days, but if the thought of my fasting bothers you, then don't expect me to take them. And you know full well that NSAIDs don't work on me. I don't know why they even bother prescribing them. Sleep would be a useful alternative right now, but I seem to be afflicted by someone trying to talk. I can't tell you to go away, John, but I can ask you to be quiet."

_Ouch_. Successfully rebuffed, John sat back and contemplated the roadside scenery. They were on the A436 heading into the Cotswolds. John knew the way, vaguely. They would head for Oxford, and then get onto the M40 down to London. The first part of the journey was through rolling hills and fields dotted with sheep, little villages with houses in glorious soft golden stone with slate roofs. Once on the motorway, it would become boring. Although he was tempted to just let his eye enjoy the view, he could not help but think he was squandering an opportunity.

But how to start the discussion? _Excuse me, Sherlock, but would you mind explaining to me why you had two panic attacks and a melt down and just what the hell happened on the night of 17/18 August 1994?_ Somehow, that just didn't seem likely to succeed. The first step to getting someone to deal with PTSD was to get them to acknowledge the fact that it existed. In his own case, he'd been given no choice. He'd had too many flashbacks in the presence of medical professionals whose opinions he valued. Add to that the fact that one of them had recorded him shouting in the midst of a nightmare, and then played it back to him so he couldn't exactly ignore it. Oh, and add to that the fact that the medical board had declared him unfit for service and forced him into a medical discharge. Well, trying to pretend it didn't exist was difficult when he could hardly walk, and he knew why.

At Northleach, the Bentley negotiated another roundabout, this one handling a steady stream of traffic on the Fosse Way, heading north. When the car came to a halt, Sherlock opened his eyes briefly to see where they were.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" The taller man had already sunk back into his slouch and closed his eyes.

"Can you solve another puzzle for me?"

"Maybe, depends on whether it is interesting enough." The baritone sounded sleepy. He didn't open his eyes.

"Why wasn't there any record of you breaking your wrist before in that great fat medical file of yours?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

A disgruntled groan. "I have no idea, John. Just chalk it up to the incompetence of the NHS. Or my brother's inability to force every bit of the UK public sector to answer his irrational demands for useless data. It doesn't matter. It's irrelevant."

"I'm not so sure about that. The consultant thought it important."

"If you keep harassing me by talking, then I _am_ going to ask you to go away. You can sit up next to the driver and chat away. The privacy screen between us will let me do what I really need to do."

"It's just odd that the records of a break like that would go missing."

The eyes did not open, but the frown was growing. "You are the one who routinely nags me to sleep. So I am going to do so now. _Be quiet_." And that was that- Sherlock just did not reply or respond to the next three questions John asked.

For someone who always liked to have the last word, Sherlock was remarkably adept at using silence as an avoidance strategy. He did not speak again for the next hour and a half. When the Bentley arrived at Baker Street, he got out of the car and through the front door without a word. The chauffeur carried their luggage upstairs. Sherlock went straight into his bedroom, shut the door behind him, and left John to thank the man, and to ask him to convey his thanks to the Countess.

Once the driver was heading down the stairs, John fixed two cups of tea and wandered down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. He knocked on the door, and got an instant baritone response: "Go away."

"Sherlock? I've made you a cup of tea." There was no reply. He left it on the floor outside the door. It was still there untouched and cold the next morning.

It was a month later, when John looked back over the period, he realised that Sherlock's reaction should have told him something important. At the time, however, with no idea of what was to come, it seemed a reasonable request. His friend was tired, still feeling the effects of the general anaesthetic and a long car journey home. Add to that the usual post-case crash, and it was only sensible that he be allowed to rest. But, with hindsight, John wished he had never walked away from the closed door that night.

* * *

**Author's note**: OK- don't hate me. I know that a lot of you wanted the angsty bits cleared up in this story, but this is the end of the _**Musgrave Blaze** _story. As with most of my multi-chapter stories, when one ends, another beckons. There will be a sequel, called "_**De-frag**_" which covers Sherlock's full system crash, and then how his hard-drive is cleaned up; viruses detected, malware files deleted, memory freed up, and order restored. In short, how Mycroft and John get him to deal with the consequences of what happened when Sherlock was fifteen. Expect angst, the occasional case fic to leaven the load, with guest appearances by Esther Cohen, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade. But no more horses, alas. He meant what he said. He will never ride again.

Follow me to be sure you don't miss the first instalment. The more feedback I get in the box below on this story, the faster I am likely to start posts on the new sequel. Do feel free to tell me what you liked in this story, what didn't work for you and what you would like to see more of in the sequel. And thanks- to every reader and especially to every reviewer. You are the reason I keep writing in this genre.


	28. Chapter 28 Postscript

**Postscript: **

For those waiting for _**De-Frag**_….it's coming, I promise. Soon. This coming week I will start posting. In the meantime, as not all of you are following _**ExFiles**_, there are two new stories, _**Excruciating **_and _**Exhume**_ that cover some of the same territory of De-Frag's flashbacks, just from a different character's POV.


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